Shakedown the Dream
by ThePsiFiles
Summary: 2012 Movieverse. The fledgling PsiDiv assembles on Aegis for the vehicle's shakedown cruise - but nothing is ever that simple or easy in Mega City One! When cars are jacked and the bullets start flying, more than technology will be tested, and Jackie Quartermain will find her dream coming true - but will she wish she'd woken earlier?
1. Dreams

**A/n :** Detailed author's notes for this story appear at the end of each chapter. General notes about my "Dredd" fanon setting (and links to inspiration pictures etc.) appear on my profile.

This story takes place about five months after "Aegis", the day after "Flash the Bronze", and the same evening as "Highway Don't Care". (mid to late August). It follows on from the events in those stories, so it might not make sense without having read them (the characters certainly won't!)

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Shakedown The Dream**

"_All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible."_

~ Col. T. ("Lawrence of Arabia")

**Prog 1 : Dreams**

You are about to wake when you dream you are dreaming.

The lawgiver kicked in her hands like the stand-ins had on the training range, the ejected brass sparkling in the harsh halogen streetlights. The ammo-read in her visor's HUD dropped by one and a kneeling perp dropped, too. He tumbled with a neat hole punched in the side of his head, hitting the asphalt loose-limbed, a marionette with cut strings. She spun, bringing her lawgiver up, the leather of her new uniform creaking, her gloves shiny and slick on the sandpaper-sharp diamond-cut grip-plates of the weapon. The helmet's unaccustomed weight brushed her collar and neck, her hair coiled and piled underneath it to cushion the top of her head.

Recent memories flooded through her – running from the safety of an aircraft's hold, crimson lights flashing, leaping from a ramp yawning over an ocean of gunfire and jammed cars. The wind whipping past her face, the singing-hiss of the arrestor cable running through the brakes of the rappelling harness. The weight of the longarm in her hands, the embrace of the armored uniform, the shock in her knees as her boots hit the asphalt.

She looked over iron sights at another perp swinging at her with a crowbar. Her shot went through empty space as he stumbled to the side. A widowmaker round had slammed into him, entering under his arm and exiting through the opposite clavicle. He flopped to the ground, dead before he hit.

"Clear!" called the Judge who'd fired.

"Cl . . . clear!" stuttered another.

The Judge with the widowmaker turned to look at her, his visor glittering, his scarred jaw and lips set. "Cadet?" he prompted in a voice she didn't know. "Cadet? Cadet Quartermain?"

"_Cadet Quartermain!_" Novak's voice and the sharp _whack!_ as her daystick cracked into the brushed-steel surface of her desk woke her from her distracted divination.

"Clear!" she cried, blinking her green eyes at the unaccustomed brightness of the classroom. She shuddered a breath into her, feeling light and airy in the pale blue cadet jumpsuit, missing the weight of the armor web, her hands painfully sensitive out of gloves. Unbidden, her hand stole towards her uniform and she could not disguise the faint moan of disappointment as her questing fingers met nothing but soft cloth. No leather, no metal, nothing of her dream remained.

"You with us, Cadet?" asked Novak, her hands on her hips. Quartermain looked around the room, at her classmates eying her derisively and trying not to be too obvious about snickering. She swallowed her tears and nodded.

"Yes . . . yes, Ma'am," she said. "I'm sorry, Ma'am – I just . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Novak's stern face softened. "I know," she said. "Perhaps it would be appropriate for you to sit out if you're unwell . . ."

Quartermain's narrow jaw tightened. "I'm not _sick_, Ma'am!" she ground out through gritted teeth. "I'm just . . . _different._" Novak narrowed her blue-gray eyes to steely slits and Quartermain mastered herself with an effort. "Begging the Tutor's pardon, Ma'am," she apologized. She pushed her chair back and got up, standing at sharp attention. "With the Tutor's permission," she said, "I will sit this class out – I will visit your office later to organize a make-up period."

Novak looked at her for a second, and then turned to the rest of the class. "Pair off," she ordered, "by the numbers. Pistol disarms, _go._" She glanced at Quartermain and flicked her head, pointing with her daystick. "Let's step outside, Cadet," she said crisply.

One of Quartermain's classmates scoffed and jeered; Novak didn't even spare the glance beyond that necessary to keep her daystick on target. He crumpled to the ground with a gasping cry of pain. "Up and down the emergency stairwell," she ordered. "Foundation to roof and back. And I mean _run_." She stepped towards the door, pushing it open with her baton so Quartermain could walk ahead of her. "I understand you're not a volunteer, Cadet," she began gently as the door swung shut.

Quartermain knew where this was going – she didn't need to be a precog to manage that. "Ma'am, no!" she exclaimed, all-but-falling to her knees but still clutching her hands in front of her. "Ma'am, please – no. I want to be a Judge, Ma'am, I really do. It's . . ." Her voice faltered as she saw just how cliched what she was about to say sounded. She gathered her courage and straightened. "It's my dream, Ma'am," she said very quietly. "Don't take my dream away."

Novak considered. She shook her head. "I don't think the Academy environment is conducive to your training, Cadet," she said seriously. "Especially given your . . . _gifts_." She nodded and seemed to make up her mind. "I will speak with Principal Griffin and . . ."

"Ma'am, _please!_" Quartermain whined. "I _know_ the Academy can't have J-Dept jeopardized by inefficiency . . . but, please?" she begged.

"As you were, Cadet!" Novak's bark snapped her to attention. "I said _gifts_, damnit! I'll speak with Principal Griffin and we'll work something out that will better serve your needs." She licked her lips and gave a very slight shudder – the girl's insights scared her more than Anderson's had; with the telepath, it had been a knowledge of what you were thinking and you could change your mind. This fire-haired precog knew what was going to happen – and, more often than not, there was nothing you could do to alter it. "As I was going to say," she said with a sickly smile, "the Academy will _not_ have J-Dept jeopardized by inefficiency. You are an _asset_, Cadet," she said seriously. "I won't risk losing that."

Quartermain smiled a watery smile. "Thank you, Ma'am," she said seriously, grateful in a way she couldn't convey. "I apologize for my outburst, Ma'am," she added sheepishly.

"Plural," said Novak. "And you're forgiven." She smiled and lay a hand on Quartermain's shoulder. "This is your dream, Jackie?" she asked. The Cadet nodded and the Tutor shook her head. "One day, you'll wake up – I just hope you won't be sad it's come true."

"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up." The shaking on her shoulder was insistent. "Wake up, willya? It's eighteen-hundred – we're doing final pre-flights for _Aegis_. Brufy wants to button her up."

"Hmm, wassup?" she asked blearily, lifting her head from where it was pillowed on her arms. She'd been cuddling her stuffed kitten, leaning on an open textbook. She rubbed her eyes, looking around the pre-fab building that served as her dorm in Tiger hangar. "Oh, wow – sorry, Nick," she muttered. "What a weird dream," she said distractedly.

"Yours always are," opined Betancourt, but she shook her head.

"No, no," she said, standing and lifting her bag onto the surface of the table. She jammed the kitten into it without embarrassment and zipped it closed, slinging it onto her shoulder and tucking the book under her arm. "It wasn't the future . . . well, I guess it was. I dreamed about something that happened before I was assigned to _Aegis_, when I was first at the Academy. I had a vision in class, and Tutor Novak pulled me out and . . ." She shook her head as if to clear it. "It's fading," she said softly. "Precognitive dreams don't fade."

Betancourt smiled and clapped her on the shoulder. "Come on, Jackie Q," he chuckled. "One more hour, and your dreams come true." She laughed and shook her head.

"Not mine – yours and Brufen's, maybe," she said, "but not mine. Not yet, at least," she clarified. "You want to fly, Brufen wants to . . . I dunno, tinker with gears and engines and spug like that? I dunno what makes him tick. But I want to be a Judge. I _will_ be a Judge," she said decisively.

Betancourt pushed held the door open for her, giving her an opportunity to look around what had been her home for over a year, but other than a cursory sweep to make sure all her posters were off the wall and in a folded stack inside her textbook, she didn't waste time with nostalgia. She smiled her thanks and stepped past him. "But you are," he said as they got aboard one of the electric carts and drove through the bustling hangar towards the airship. "You're part of Psi Division, on the crew of _Aegis. _Cass trusts you implicitly. Okay, you're a _Cadet_-Judge, but . . ."

Seated in the passenger seat next to him, she shook her head. "Judicial-Cadet," she corrected him precisely. She gestured at her uniform – she was wearing leather and plates in pale Cadet-blue, the buttons and fasteners faux-chrome. She slapped her empty holster. "No black, no bronze, no lawgiver," she said, a sad trifecta. "I'm not a Judge – I am a student who _might_ become a Judge."

Betcancourt glanced at her. Seated, neither had a height advantage. She was still shorter than him, but she'd grown over the last few months, broader and bulkier beneath the heavy armor. Since DCJ Cal had given PsiDiv divisional recognition with the right to train Cadets internally (even though she still took most of her classes at the Academy) she'd been more confident, more assertive, standing a little straighter and willing to have her opinions known. "Uncertainty ain't like you, Jackie," he said.

"Oh, I don't mean it like that," she said brightly. She settled the bag on her lap, untangling herself from the shoulder strap and tucking the textbook into a side pocket. She whipped her hair from where it had been pinned with a flick of her head. It blazed in the bright lights, a flash of color against the utilitarian industry of the hangar. "That's what a Cadet is, but not what I am."

A glimpse of seriousness and mentoring showed through a chink in Betancourt's armor of casual flippancy. "Pretty cocky for a girl they don't trust with a gun," he said softly. She glared at him – but embarrassed and accepting the rebuke.

"I'm a _precog_," she explained. "You don't understand – I _knew_ the Department was going to take me from my family before it happened, I knew it. And I came to terms with it, because I _knew_ I was going to be a Cadet and I _know_ I'm going to be a Judge. I had all the time I needed to come to terms with it – the other draftees weren't that lucky. The orphans, I mean. None of us chose it, but I came to terms with it," she repeated, almost as if she were trying to convince herself. She'd been staring down, speaking quietly and urgently, but now she looked up and faced Betancourt. "It's not some pipe-dream, Nick," she explained. "I have worked and sweated and sacrificed. And I know what it's going to be like – _really_ what it's going to be like. We were taught that, not some sanitized recruitment drive spug with all the fun stuff emphasized and the horror glossed over. And I just _know_.

"And, you know what, Nick?" she said with conviction. "I'm ready and I _want_ it. I didn't ask for it, but I want it. I'm tired of waiting for the inevitable. I want to be Judge Jacqueline Quartermain with my boots on the street and blood on my daystick. I want a badge and a lawgiver and the black-and-bronze."

Betancourt nodded, his gray eyes introspective. He brought the cart to a stop at the base of Aegis' docking tower and jumped smartly off, flinging his own bag on his shoulder. "How long you got?" he asked as the two of them climbed the stairs. "Four years?"

"Probably five or six," she admitted. "I'm a late induction, and being assigned to PsiDiv means I missed a lot of stuff I'd need. Gotta make that up."

"Isn't JC gonna be doing that?" Betancourt asked. Quartermain smiled at the nickname.

"Yeah," she admitted. "If he ever gets here," she added darkly. "Have you seen . . . ?" Betancourt shook his head. She sighed. "See, I just worry – I _knew_ he was going to say yes before Cassandra told me, and now he's not here. So, what does it mean if 'know' I'm going to get the black-and-bronze?"

"_Aegis_ shakedowns in sixty," Betancourt said decisively as they walked through the rear cargobay and into the squad room. "She'll graduate to Judicial Asset within the week. And you're aboard, on active deployment. How many Cadets get to do that?" He tapped the blue-painted metal of her plastron with a knuckle. "You wearing this for the look of it?"

She stopped just short of stomping her foot in frustration. "Kinda, _yeah!_" she snapped. "You don't get it – I'm _not_ rated for engagement or sentencing, not even cleared for _live-fire_, for Grud's sake! That's . . . that's . . ." She fumbled for a metaphor. "That's like you not being cleared to _fly!_ It's what Judges_ do_, it's what we _are!_" Betancourt's handsome face demurred with sympathy.

"I thought you said you weren't a Judge," he said softly.

She gave a little self-deprecating chuckle. "I did," she agreed. "I'm a Cadet, a _pale-blue_. And my dreams are so real, and I _know_ they'll come true, that waiting for them is just aching. Don't get me wrong – this brings me closer to it, so close I can taste it. But . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"But it doesn't make it any easier," finished Betancourt for her.

She nodded. "Quite the opposite," she said with a self-deprecating smile. She shook herself and shrugged, looking excitedly around the room. "Anyway, what am I getting so sad about?" she said brightly. "Where's my rack?"

"Brufy and I have got the two bunks at the front," said Betancourt. He was leaning casually against the ladder that climbed to a circular hatch in the ceiling. "They're nearer the bridge, so that makes sense," he explained. "But anything else is yours – which one do you want?"

The gondola's central chamber took up about half its length and the full width with an eight-foot ceiling. It was not only the squad room and bullpen, but also the main living quarters and even sleeping space – there were dormitory alcoves against the outer skin of the craft, three to port and three to starboard. Each had a shelf-cot at around Quartermain's eye-level and a locker that took up half the width beneath. A chair seat and a simple table could be folded down from the walls in the remaining space. There were thick-glassed round portholes above the beds and in the sitting cubicle. Curtains could be drawn to give privacy, but now they were all pulled back, letting the hangar's light into the cabin. "Oh, I don't mind," she told Betancourt. "Where's Cassandra sleeping?" she asked with artful casualness. The pilot grinned and pointed.

"Port rear," he said. Quartermain should have been able to work that out herself – the psi's gear was stacked in the locker, the door swinging open and her duty belt with a torn holster lying on the table. "She'll need to secure that before we take off," he remarked, but Quartermain ignored him.

She stepped towards the alcove just forward of Anderson's, opening the locker and chucking her bag in. She unzipped it and pulled out her stuffed kitten, tucking it under one arm as she stood on tip-toes to dismantle her rack. She flipped the bedclothes around and remade the cot, putting the pillow towards the rear of the gondola so it was separated from Anderson's by only a thin metal wall. She pulled back the sheet and tucked her kitten under it, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She turned back to face Betancourt. Suddenly, it all seemed so-much more real to her. "This is going to be _fun_," she announced decisively.

Betancourt chuckled, but there was a nervous edge to it. He'd heard enough green recruits say that – and seen them come back from their first sortie shaking and puking. Sometimes, it was their last sortie – and not always for a fatal reason. Sometimes they just realized they weren't cut out for it. "You sure?" was all he asked.

"Oh, trust me," Quartermain assured him. "I'm rarely wrong."

**A/n :** This was originally intended to be a very short, almost silly story – nothing more than some action and adventure, bringing a current event into the Dreddverse (this event is why late August is the date for all of this – the event in question happens during late August!) I'd originally planned to get it written in time _for_ the event itself, but events conspired against me.

But then, as I was writing it, I realized this could really serve as Quartermain's origin story – not so much in the sense of where she is from and so forth, but the story that really introduces her. "Highway Don't Care" is Cornelius' first solo-outing, "Gunpowder &amp; Lead" is Anderson's, and while this won't be just Jackie Q, it will be her first active engagement.

Review box is right under here – just type what you thought!


	2. Aegis Assemble

**Prog 2 : _Aegis_ Assemble**

"What the drokk happened to _you_?"

Cornelius had showered and run his uniform through decontam to remove the Cursed Earth rad-dust before reporting to Tiger hangar, but he could do nothing about his bruises or the scuffs on the leathers and armor plates. He wasn't sure if it was those or his uncharacteristic tardiness which clued Anderson into knowing something had happened. Maybe something else, he reminded himself – he was so used to naturally perceptive women like his mother and Novak that a preternaturally perceptive one could fly under the radar. "I could ask the same question," he said with concern, noticing the mottled purple-black bruising around her eye. "Is that a _shiner_? Who the spug hung a mouse on you?"

She smiled like a woman embraced, enjoying the wash of compassion and protection flowing from him. Behind him, the main roller door to the hangar clanked shut. They were all-but alone, what few people standing around intently focused on their own tasks, and so she didn't need to pretend not to bask in the chivalry of his concern. "Why?" she asked. "You gonna go clean his chronometer?"

"If you didn't," he assured her, "but I'm guessing he's contemplating the inside of a 'cube right about now?" She shrugged.

"That," she said, "or resyk – gotta say," she admitted, "I don't remember which one got the lick in. But we weren't talking about me – you _drove_? I told you to requisition a zonejumper!" He shook his head.

"No," he disagreed, "you told me not to be late, and you said a request would be approved. Now," he grinned, "am I late?"

She laughed herself. "You ain't early!" she exclaimed. "Which, for you, almost counts as late. Jackie was terrified you weren't coming – I don't know if she's worried she's losing her touch, or if she just misses you. And Brufen's been bitching up a storm about that stuff you ordered for the armory – apparently weight is a big deal when you're flying; who knew? He's been swinging his slide rule around like Novak with her daystick."

"Tell me that's not a euphemism," Cornelius said dryly. Anderson shrugged.

"I've showered with her," she said blithely – her face was a picture of studied innocence and deliberate misunderstanding, "so I know it's not – but I never believed the rumors anyway," she assured him. "I think the boys were just embarrassed she'd warm up with their max." She mimed benching weights as Cornelius' face and mindscape flared with shock and indignation.

"For Grud's sake, Cassie!" he exclaimed.

"You started it!" she pointed out, not unreasonably. She grinned at him, her eyes suggestive. "She's a natural blonde, you know." He glared at her, his jaw locked, but she simply held her gaze until his poise cracked and he laughed. He opened his mouth to ask a question and then decided against it, shaking his head softly. It was too-late – he'd already thought it. "Wouldn't you like to know . . ." she murmured.

He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself grinning and lifted his chin, looking off into a high corner for a few moments, his eyes unfocused as he composed himself and locked down his mind with an effort. "So, the materiel arrived?" he asked eventually. "I was worried the requisition wouldn't be fulfilled in time."

"No," said Anderson, "everything's there, I think – you'll have to check. But, John," she asked, "what's the deal? The armory was equipped – bring personal arms, sure, but _refitting_ it?"

"Did you not read the _Aegis_ files?" he asked her seriously. She threw up her hands.

"As if," she exclaimed. "Like I said; that's why I have you, _number one_."

He chuckled. "Well, if you'd read them," he said dryly, "you'd know there's another reason you have me – XO is responsible for platform armory, and selection was a little light. Standard longarms are too big for certain applications – block war, riots, general CQB, that kind of thing. Carbine-variants chamber the same round and have the same stopping power, but shorter overall length."

Anderson nodded. "And," she added with a self-deprecating smirk, "carbines are nicer for Jackie and I to handle." He furrowed his brow. "Not all of us are six-foot-four of Baltimore beefcake, John," she explained.

Cornelius shrugged. "Whatever you're comfortable with," he said shortly. "You should have plenty of options. I also added some support hardware – lawrod, blockrocker, privateer." He shrugged. "I'm rated on all three – competent, but no expert. Still, I'm cleared on basic operational instruction for them and all standard personal arms, so I should be able to bring Jackie up to speed and she won't have to retake for credits or test out. For the rest of the classes I've got Pepper's curriculum – I can handle the muscle and guns spug, between you and me we can cover The Law, and I'm hoping Brufen can find time to tutor math and the techie stuff. For the humanities, they've got video uplinks and archived classes for Cadets in the field – and I'm thinking we've got enough between us to put the polish on. Heck," he admitted, "I'll get Nick to help out – did you know he took electives in modern history at the NAAF college?"

She shook her head, smiling at his thoroughness. "No," she said softly, "but – again – I have you to read the paperwork. Thank you," she added sincerely. "You have no idea how important this is to her, her judicial training." She looked at him seriously. "She wants a Street rating, John – she dreams about it."

"Well," shrugged Cornelius, "then it's _going_ to happen."

Anderson shook her head. "No, not like that. It's her dream – eyes open, knowing full-well what it means. She wants the Street rating, she wants the black-and-bronze. She doesn't just want to be some justice-blue pencil pusher back at HOJ – she wants dust on the eagle and blood on her daystick."

Cornelius nodded, understanding. "My cousin's a Tek," he explained. "She's the same way – worked hard to get the rating, works harder to keep it. It's not an easy thing for a specialist to do." He recalled he'd never seen Brufen in black-and-bronze, just justice-blue, and wondered.

"Jackie _needs_ to be here," Anderson said with conviction. "She needs specialized training only I can give her – and Grud knows PsiDiv needs the data on precogs. But that doesn't leave _time_ for her to learn everything – even if she _weren't_ a late-induction, there aren't enough hours in the day for her to attend classes at the Academy _and_ be here. Something would slip through the cracks."

"Well, it can't," said Cornelius simply. "The entire mission of _Aegis_ is based on what you've proven – Psi-Judges need Street ratings. I agree with you – the standard Academy education is insufficient. It's failed one Cadet already – thank Grud the Chief Judge saw your potential and partnered you with Dredd rather than going by the numbers. That can't happen to Jackie – and not only because the city needs her. I don't want screwing up a special asset's education on my record _or_ conscience." Anderson smiled.

"'Special asset the city needs' and worry about your reputation?" she asked softly. Once again, she made the conscious choice not to prod him for his true motivations, but she let him know she knew the real reasons with an unconvinced "_Hmm_."

Cornelius blushed. "Regardless," he said dismissively, "you're putting a lot on me. Even with the training she'll get on the job, it's a big responsibility. I mean, I teach hand-to-hand . . ."

"So does Novak," said Anderson softly, "and she's the youngest Vice-Principal the Academy's had. Don't worry, Tutor," she reassured him, "you'll do just fine and, remember, you're not doing this alone." He gave a slightly-sheepish smile and nodded.

"You wanna go start?" he asked.

She looked at him for a long moment, grateful in a way she couldn't convey without embarrassing him further. She lifted her arm to him. With a wordless smile, he linked their wrists and grasped her hand, pulling himself down towards her with a flex of his knees to clink their eagles together. "Let's," she said, her lips a chaste inch from his.

oOo

Tiger hanger was a bustling hive of activity this close to launch, the combined platform of _Aegis_ and _Manta_ complete but for the final hull-coatings – both vehicles were a utilitarian patchwork of gray panels separated by yellow-and-black hazard striping. The HULA was still supported on the scaffold, but cranes stood ready to pull the cross-braced girder towers away once it lifted off. The domed roof above was open above – it gaped wide, but as Cornelius ascended the docking tower he had to fight to suppress the thought the opening looked all-too-small for the massive aircraft.

He and Anderson reached the top of the tower, walking up the sloping ramp into the rear of the gondola. "Commander and XO aboard, Brufen," she said into her wrist comm.

"_Engineer confirms,_" Brufen's voice came back; they were less than thirty-minutes from launch, and his distraction was clear even over the speaker. "_Stand clear of the door._" Cornelius glanced down – his feet were a good three feet from the warning markings, but he still watched carefully as the hydraulically-operated ramp closed into the floor.

Cornelius knew from the specifications the gondola was sixty feet long and twenty wide, with the front and rear curved into smooth semi-circles – relatively large, certainly for an aircraft, but nevertheless enclosed and a little claustrophobic when inside. The living and working spaces were on a single level with the bridge at the front. The rear cargo space was open and empty but for three bikes stowed against the left wall. There was a door in the wall ahead of them, two cramped holding cells on either side.

Anderson turned to him and grinned. "Don't let Brufen catch you doing that," she said. He glanced at her askance. "It's a _bulkhead_," she explained. "And fore-and-aft, and port-and-starboard."

He rolled his eyes. "So noted," he acknowledged, "but I _thought_ it, not said it – and Brufen's no psi."

She shrugged. "Men say what's in their minds," she told him. "Sooner or later," she added as a coda.

He laughed. "Not what's in their heart?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Men _never_ say what's in their heart, John," she said – it almost sounded like a lament. "Come on," she added quickly before the situation could get awkward. "Let's go up front and see if we can make trouble of ourselves." She led the way across the latticework floor; cargo space was visible beneath it, accessible through hatches.

"'Let's go _for'ard_ and see if we can make trouble of ourselves'," he corrected her blandly. She jabbed backwards into his gut without malice; their armor protected them from meaningful contact. A short corridor, with a lab and washroom to port and starboard, led into the squad room. Seated at one of the six swivel chairs maglocked to the floor around the large central table was Quartermain. She had one leg tucked up, her foot under her thigh, and her chin in her hand, her copper-red hair cascading onto the table next to the textbook opened in front of her. There was a fierce cleft of concentration between her eyebrows and focus pursed her sensual mouth even fuller than its natural brooding pout. She bit her lip and covered the page with her hand, looking up into the corner of the room and silently mouthing answers.

"Big test tomorrow, Jackie?" Cornelius asked with a grin.

Quartermain started and spun to face him, practically jumping out of the chair with an inarticulate noise of joy. "Sir!" she cried. She ran towards him and – heedless of protocol – wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself to him. "You're here!" she exclaimed. "I was _so _happy when Cassandra told me you said yes!"

Cornelius held his hands gingerly off her, a slightly-sickly smile on his face. He was very well aware of the undisguised curves of her voluptuous figure beneath the pale blue Cadet leathers – he hadn't seen her for five months, and at her age, in the middle of puberty and the athletic regimen of the Academy, that was a long time. He was struck by just how _much_ she had physically matured – she was an inch or two taller, and the hard-soft flesh pressing against him wasn't that of a girl any more. "_Cadet_," he said meaningfully.

To her credit, Quartermain immediately understood. She jumped back as if he were electrified, stiffening into excellent attention. "Sir, yes Sir!" she snapped. "Begging the Judge's pardon, Sir – that was highly unprofessional of me. It won't happen again."

"I find that very hard to believe," Anderson said dryly. "Brufen and Nick on the bridge?" Quartermain nodded.

"I was there," she explained, "but I think I was in the way – Nick was very polite about it, of course, but I could tell Brufen was getting antsy. He got miffed I was wearing plates – told me to come back here and take them off."

Cornelius glanced at Anderson. "What?" he asked. "This is an active deployment, Cadet – that's why you're in leathers. I want you in armor – plate up."

Quartermain beamed for the briefest of seconds, and then her beautiful face collapsed into worry. "But Brufen said . . ."

"Brufen ain't in charge, Jackie," Anderson reminded her. Technically, of course, neither was Cornelius – but the role of XO should, ideally, include management of the team. This kind of Street-readiness was the reason she'd chosen him – well, _one_ of the reasons. Quartermain nodded smartly and all-but-ran to her bunk, jerking the curtain back and wrenching open the locker. She pulled out her armor-web – pale blue like her leathers – and struggled into it, unclipping the _CADET_ shield from her belt and putting it in place on her chest. She shuffled herself inside the armor, settling it more comfortably, and checked herself in the mirror inside the locker door. Satisfied, she turned and straightened into attention.

Cornelius beckoned her forward and slowly paced around her. "Uniform inspection is a pass, Cadet," he said, "but I don't want to see you without your plates while on duty again." She nodded her understanding. He glanced down at her hip. "Where's your sidearm?" he asked.

"Sir?" she asked, cocking her head out of attention. She stiffened back into it. "Sir, I am rated as a _Cadet_," she reminded him as gently as she could. "I do not have a personal sidearm assigned." Cadets were not issued full lawgivers. They checked-out training pistols when needed – functionally-identical but without the ID check and with a governor which prevented them being used off the firing range. The Category II magazine was loaded with stand-ins for the more dangerous shells – Hi-Ex was replaced with a smoke grenade, Incendiary with quick-burning nitrocellulose and Ricochet with rubber bullets (although no more dangerous than a Standard round, 'dodgems' were much more unpredictable in their trajectory unless you could compute the angles in your head – which few Cadets could. A rubber round wouldn't kill but stung badly enough to encourage them to take trigonometry seriously.)

"Hmm," said Cornelius. He walked to the forward bulkhead and pressed his lawscreen against it. The maglock cycled and the armory doors slid open. The materiel he'd ordered was neatly stowed, shelves already labeled, even speed-racks for the magazines installed – he made a mental note to commend Brufen for his diligence. There were a half-dozen lawgivers in a neat row, oily-black in their newness. He grabbed one of them and glanced at it – there was something virginal about it, its matte-black innocence with no scuffs or scorching around the muzzle or ejector ports. He spun it in his hand, handing it butt-first to Quartermain. "Here," he said prosaically, "this is yours."

She reached out to take it – to her credit, her hand didn't shake – and closed her blue-gloved fingers around the sandpaper-sharp diamond-cut grip-plates. She tried to pull it towards her, but Cornelius kept hold of it. "You know what this is, Cadet?" he asked abruptly.

"Lawgiver Mark II," she said with a faint smile. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. She nodded, slowly. "Yes, Sir," she said seriously. "The lawgiver is more than a gun, and it is more than a symbol of our authority. It _is_ authority – The Law extends to the limit of the last lawgiver's range. And when that's gone, then The Law reaches as far as you can with your daystick or boot-knife or your fists and feet."

Cornelius didn't smile or let go of the gun. "You read _Dredd's Comportment_," he remarked.

"Standard Academy text, Sir," she explained.

"You just _quote_ it," said Cornelius carefully. "You don't say 'I'."

She swallowed, her hand now shaking on the gun as she feared it might be taken away. "Sir, this is my _dream_," she explained. She gestured at her uniform with her free hand – from collar to the soles of her boots she was in pale, cadet-blue. Much of the equipment on her belt – the weighted-fakes for day-to-day training – was the same color. "Look at me, Sir," she said. "That's the only bit of black I've got – I know perfectly well what it is. Can I ask you, Sir?" she said in a quavering voice. "Do you _remember_ what that is to a Cadet?"

For an instant, Cornelius looked at Quartermain. He did remember – he remembered as if it were yesterday the day Novak had given him his lawgiver and asked the very same question and he'd given virtually the same answer. In truth, it wasn't all that long ago – who was he, really, to be lecturing a woman wracked with nightmares and visions in a way he couldn't comprehend? Who'd been torn from her family and thrust into Justice Department corruption and what anyone else would call magic without a by-your-leave? When he was here merely because he'd . . . _impressed_ a Division Chief? No matter – whatever else she and he were, she was a Cadet and he was her Tutor.

Although it was perhaps opaque to those outside the Department, the color-coding of the Judges' uniforms was a precise thing – in day-to-day active service a lot of the uniform regulations might be allowed to slide, but colors never were. Cadets wore pale blue – _cadet-blue_ was the official name – with full Judges being permitted to wear the darker shade of justice-blue. The regulation was enforced even to underwear and off-duty dress – casual clothes too-dark were discouraged and seen as a sign of unhealthy rebellion. Cadets' indoor uniforms were simple jumpsuits. For physical training purposes, including live-fire at the range, they had leathers and armor webs in cadet-blue, the same design as the full Judge's uniform except for the absence of the shoulder eagle. Badges were bronze, but simply read 'CADET' and were turned in at graduation, to be presented to the next inducted class.

As Quartermain had explained to Betancourt, the official title was not Cadet-Judge, but Judicial-Cadet. Linguistics, rhetoric and intimidation Tutors explained the meaning in technical terms – the head-noun was _Cadet_ not _Judge_ – while others said it explicitly and repetitiously; a Cadet was not a Judge – he was a student who _might_ become a Judge. At graduation, that changed – he became a Rookie-Judge with a level two authorization and permission to wear justice-blue.

Although _not_ necessarily black-and-bronze. Black was the operational color, the color of those rated for engagement and sentencing. Street-Judges wore black – and only those Rookies making an Assessment under a senior Street-Judge wore it at graduation. Others – Teks, Medics, other specialists, perhaps Psis in the future – got a justice-blue uniform and testing by their own departments.

Street was, in the frank opinion of Street and (as an article of faith _for_ Street) the deep-down, heart-of-hearts, when-they're-in-their-cups-honest opinion of everyone else, the most important and prestigious assignment in the Department. Street-Judges _were_ the Justice Department – everyone else was a pencil-pusher or just along to hand them the daystick. Even if that weren't perfectly true a Street-rating – the authority to engage and sentence, to ride a patrol, to serve a shift in a Sector House – was coveted. Those specialists who had it – and there were few – tended to wear the black-and-bronze exclusively, a badge more desired and admired than perhaps even the shoulder eagle and personalized bronze shield.

So, yes – Cornelius remembered and understood very well what the black gun represented. All J-Dept weapons were black – not merely for pragmatic reasons, but also because they were used exclusively in engagements. In theory, all Judges – Street or specialist – were rated on personal arms, unarmed combat, daystick and boot-knife, and had a sufficient working knowledge of The Law. Even so, justice-blue specialists were unrated for engagement and sentencing – only assuming that role in emergencies or with the explicit authorization of the ranking Street-Judge on-scene.

To a pale blue Cadet – not a Judge, but a student who might become a Judge, who wasn't yet confirmed on the path that led to justice-blue – the black gun was a promise, the fulfillment of a small dream en route to the larger one. It held out the hope that, one day, he would straddle a lawmaster and ride a route on the streets, dust on his uniform and blood on his daystick. The day you got your gun – _your_ gun, coded to your DNA and for which you were responsible – was a milestone in the life of a Judge.

All this went though Cornelius' mind so fast it was a blur to Anderson, a flash of happy memories and pride. He nodded and let go. The gun was heavy in Quartermain's hand, heavy with more than the weight she'd been trained to handle. The display – quiescent black – still had the protective film on, and the Tek-access port in the receiver was partially-open, a thin tab of red plastic keeping it from being closed. Moving slightly awkwardly, she holstered the weapon and then drew it again, repeating the motion a couple of times. She snapped the thumb-break closed and tried to replicate the quick snap-draw, but the gleaming leather of her glove slipped and she fumbled. Anderson laughed – indulgently, not cruelly – but Cornelius was more sympathetic.

"Handlebars'll wear the shine off your thumb eventually," he explained, "but most Judges take some sandpaper to it, rub a dab of resin in – ruins the grain of the leather, but outside the Academy uniform inspection's about being combat, not parade, ready. I've got both in my kit – we can take a look at it later."

Somehow, it was this small kindness, this inside-areoball, Judge-on-the-street spug, that was the most touching part of the whole thing. Scuffing up her bright new uniform on the squad-room table with sandpaper and resin. Relaxing after a shift over a presspulp box of noodles from the local takeout joint, jawing with the other Judges, exchanging jokes and stories – was this a precognitive vision, or just her dream for the future, fed by a thousand televid-dramas and the guesses that swirled at the Academy? "Thank you, Sir," was all she said – she had no way to convey the depth of her gratitude, not without hugging him again.

The hatch in the forward bulkhead slid open – doors did not hinge on _Aegis_; during flight Cornelius supposed they could swing dangerously, and it was easier to secure an oversized slab running on rails lined with gas-tight baffles – and Brufen stepped out. He was in justice-blue Tek coveralls and no armor web, his badge clipped to the belt. He had a large datapad in one hand, a stylus in the other. He looked frazzled, his gray hair disheveled. "Ah, Cornelius," he said. "Glad you're aboard. Anderson, preflights are complete, weather report is confirmed, we are three minutes from ignition." He glanced around the squad-room, pointing at the textbook on the table, Quartermain's open locker and Cornelius' dufflebag dropped on the floor. "If we could please secure for launch?" he said. He turned to close the armory and then spun back into the room. "Cadet . . ." he called meaningfully.

Quartermain winced. "Judge Cornelius ordered me into them, Sir," she explained. She turned to see Brufen standing near the empty slot in the lawgiver rack. "And he gave me the gun, Sir," she added. She glanced over at Cornelius, as if wanting support.

Cornelius secured the bag in his locker – he'd chosen the alcove opposite Anderson's, starboard-side aft – and glanced over his shoulder at Brufen. "Calibrate it," he ordered brusquely. "And I'll let it slide during launch, but once we're airborne I want you in leather and plates."

Anderson didn't need her psynses to pick up on the sudden tension in the room. Brufen had more years service than Cornelius had alive and this was – in a very real sense – _his_ ship. Not only was he the lead designer and head of the development team, but also the visionary and architect behind it. To him, this was a shakedown cruise of a new vehicle platform, not a judicial operation. The other Judges on board _Aegis_ were passengers at best and a distraction at worst.

But _Aegis_ existed to serve Psi Division and Anderson was Division Chief. She'd chosen Cornelius as her deputy and XO, giving him operational authority over the team. The chafing between Street and specialists – between sentencing-black and justice-blue – reared its head; officially, the lowliest black-and-bronze outranked any Judge without a Street-rating during active engagement. It looked like Cornelius was going to be a man to do things by the book – but, then again, Anderson thought to herself, what else would she expect from Dredd's Rookie and Novak's protege?

Silently, Brufen undid the maglock securing a small handheld device inside the armory, the faint color of embarrassment rising from his collar to touch his cheeks. He held out his hand to Quartermain. "We don't have all day, Cadet," he said, a little too-sharply.

Quartermain drew the pistol and offered it to Brufen. He almost-snatched it from her grasp. With practiced ease he tugged the plastic tab clear and plugged a cable into it, handing it back to her. "Dominant hand," he ordered. As she held the gun he pushed buttons on the device; it made a very positive-sounding metallic beep. "Non-dominant," he said and repeated the process. He reached forward and unplugged the cable. "Test it, please," he said shortly.

Quartermain shifted the lawgiver to her right hand. The screen lit up, the progress bar advancing swiftly as it made the DNA check. 'I.D. OK' the bright blue text reported. "Armor piercing. Standard. Rapid fire," Quartermain said in quick succession. The gun cycled smoothly. "Safety on," she said finally, holstering it. She didn't fasten the thumb-break. "Thank you, Sir," she said. Brufen grunted noncommittally, his attention on the XO.

"I am a Tek-Judge, Cornelius . . ." he began. Cornelius didn't let him finish.

"When I'm giving orders I would prefer 'XO' or 'Sir', Brufen," he said flatly. "And uniform regulations are very clear – _all_ Judges, regardless of specialization or department, will wear leather and plates during engagement. This is an active duty operation, Judge Brufen," he reminded the Tek. "We will treat it as such."

Brufen glanced towards the back of the room at Anderson, but his commander's face was as unreadable as a poured plasteen slab – and had been since Cornelius armed Quartermain. "This is a shakedown cruise, Cornelius . . ." he said.

"Again, 'XO' or 'Sir', please," Cornelius reminded him. "I trust I do _not_ need to belabor the point that we have a Cadet on board who needs good example of discipline and adherence to regulations. This is a Justice Department vehicle and it _will_ be run like one. Do I make myself clear, Judge Brufen?"

Brufen smiled, thinking he understood Cornelius' motivations. It was good he was laying down the law for the benefit of Quartermain – the flighty Cadet needed some discipline to put her in her place. "Crystal, Sir," he nodded. He snapped to attention. "If I may be dismissed, Sir?" he asked with respect just the right side of insubordination. "We are due to launch."

"We'll join you on the bridge," said Anderson abruptly. Brufen's face twisted but he didn't say a word. Neither, of course, did he need to. "My ship, Brufy," Anderson reminded him with a seraphic smile. "I even have a command chair – tell me you _haven't_ been keeping it warm for me."

**A/n :** Some world-building here – I tried to establish character interactions, as well as convey two sets of fanon-facts; the layout of _Aegis_ and the way the Justice Department works vis-a-vis specialists, Cadets and Street-Judges. I don't know if it's fully clear, but I didn't want to belabor the point.

The three weapons named – lawrod, blockrocker and privateer – are ones I invented myself. The lawrod and blockrocker first appeared in "Gunpower &amp; Lead". More details on the privateer next prog!

Anyway – tell me what you think! Review box is right underneath here!

Action and adventure on the way – this _isn't_ just going to be a shakedown cruise, and Quartermain might need that gun sooner than she thinks.

Then again, maybe she knows already – she is a precog, after all.


	3. Launch

**Prog 3 : Launch**

Brufen, of course, had been doing more than keeping the command chair warm – he'd be using it, and quite rightly so. Although she was _Aegis'_ commander, the command chair wasn't exclusively hers – whichever member of the crew currently had the conn should use it. It was in the center of the bridge, inside the sweeping curve of the control consoles against the panoramic windows. Anderson stood behind it, one hand lying lightly on the back. "Skipper on deck," Betancourt said crisply from the pilot's chair as Brufen moved forward and sat in the navigator's seat to his left.

At her shoulder, Cornelius felt Anderson stiffen. She glanced up at him, as if seeking reassurance or support. He held her gaze but didn't speak directly to her. "You rated for the communication's suite, Quartermain?"

"Sir?" she asked. "Sir, yes Sir!" she snapped.

He still didn't face her. "Then take your place," Cornelius said meaningfully.

Quartermain flashed a salute, scrambling into the chair at the rear of the horseshoe of consoles. Anderson swallowed and gave a very slight nod to Cornelius, smiling as her psynses felt the mental imperative of a comforting squeeze on the shoulder he wouldn't allow himself to offer. "I have the conn," she said, swinging the chair around and sitting in it. "XO, weapon station. Communications, confirm launch clearance."

Cornelius crossed to the rear of the bridge, taking the chair opposite Quartermain's. He kept his hands off the console in front of him – he'd read the overview of the weapon systems and they were similar enough to the heavy armaments of other J-Dept vehicles he was at least theoretically rated on for him to muddle through, but he didn't want to accidentally launch a missile inside the hangar. In theory, the weapons could be fired from either of the pilot positions or even the command chair – but the dedicated station was preferred operational procedure. Behind him, Quartermain toggled a switch. "Tiger hanger control," she said, "this is _Aegis_. Requesting launch clearance. Repeat, _Aegis_ requesting launch clearance." She listened for a few seconds and nodded. "_Aegis_ confirms, Tiger," she said. She spun back to the bridge. "Clearance okay-okay," she said. "We're good to go."

Anderson nodded. "Launch at your discretion," she said.

"Aye-aye, Skipper," said Betancourt without irony. He reached out and flicked switches on the panel in front of him. "Fuel pressure okay-okay, temperature okay-okay. Starting pumps in five, four, three, two . . . pumps engaged."

Felt rather than heard, vibrating through the deckplates, a thrum ran through _Aegis_. The room didn't move, but suddenly Cornelius was very conscious of the fact that wasn't a building, but rather a vehicle and that – Grud-willing and if the math added up – it would very soon be floating through the sky. The whole structure felt a little less stable, a little more vulnerable.

"Flow is at eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five, ninety-seven . . ." Brufen's calm voice was a sing-song chant. "Flow is within operational envelope, holding steady. Warming pre-burners, starting lift-fans . . ." Another layer of vibration was added to the heartbeat-hum of the pumps; a steady whirr that gradually rose to a distant roar as the ducted fans in the wings spun up to speed. "Fans at thirty-percent," Brufen reported. He scrolled through the masses of data projected on the window in front of him, the HUD gleaming in bright green with the occasional patch of yellow. "Fans report okay-okay, harmonics within acceptable parameters. Expanding buoyancy cells one through sixteen to sixty percent capacity."

The bridge – really, all of _Aegis_ – gave a very slight heave, like the upper level of a hab-block during a particularly fierce storm. "We have achieved neutral buoyancy," Brufen reported. He glanced back at Anderson. "On the Commander's orders," he said.

Anderson nodded, her face carefully composed. "Take us up and out," she ordered.

"Fans to thirty-five, expanding active cells to seventy," Betancourt said. The deck heaved again – a real lurch this time – as _Aegis_ lifted off the gantries. Ringing crashes came from below as the supports were pulled away. "Positive buoyancy achieved," Betancourt reported. "We are airborne and ascending." His voice was distant and distracted, his slender hands working quickly on the console and delicately adjusting the control column – Cornelius' misgivings about the seeming-smallness of the hole in the hangar roof returned.

"Attitude control reports okay-okay," said Brufen. "Craft is matching horizon, green across the board."

Through the seamless curve of the laminated armorglass window the interior of Tiger hangar dropped away. The antiglare filters kicked in automatically as the gondola rose level with the blazing lights. Betancourt's attention was focused on the radar display in front of him, not even glancing outside. "Clearance is at five meters port and starboard," he muttered. "Could you have _made_ it tighter, Brufy?" He gingerly moved a slider upwards. "Increasing fans to forty . . . ascent accelerating . . . envelope is clear." He gave a visible sigh and relaxed back in his chair, finally looking through the window in front of him.

The reason why was obvious. There had to be, Cornelius realized, a _reason_ he'd become a pilot with all the sacrifices and effort it entailed, all the hard-work and danger and risk. It wasn't just enough to dismiss it as a desire "to serve" or "give something back". Choosing _that_ service – the North American Air Force – over and above the Army or Navy demanded an answer to the dream. And, as _Aegis_ rose out of Tiger hangar and the gondola cleared the roof and the curve of plasteen dropped away below them, that answer was plain.

They were facing east, the sun aft. It was an hour-and-a-half above the horizon, shadows long and flung before them, the light warm. _Aegis_ ascended, revealing more and more of Big Tri below. Tiger hangar was in the south-east corner of the 'dust zone. To starboard, the cold shafts of concrete and the squat factories glittered with the gleam of golden glass. To port, beyond the river, the shattered radlands of the peninsular between Lakes Eerie and Sinclair glowed dustily. The river stretched ahead of them – soupy, polluted, debris-choked – with the gleaming structures of the Belial Enclave rising behind the skyscraping spires of NewRenCen. Beyond that Lake Sinclair opened out, a seemingly-endless ocean of undulating glass glimmering with the colors of sunset.

All of them had seen it before, of course – on the zonejumper flights from the city. Big Tri was nothing special – a brutal 'dust zone, run down at best beyond the glittering enclaves of its rulers, a ruined slum at worst, the waters polluted, the streets crumbling – but seen from here it had a grandeur all its own. Rising serenely, moving slowly below the cloud ceiling, offering the view through the curving panorama of the bridge windows, _Aegis_ offered something unique and humbling. Unbidden, Anderson, Cornelius and Quartermain stood, moving dully forwards, their eyes and mouths agape.

Betancourt didn't even need to turn; he knew what they were doing. "Right?" he said with a grin.

"_Mama told me not to waste my life_," Quartermain half-sung, almost to herself.

"_She said 'spread your wings, my little butterfly'_," Betancourt finished for her, holding out his fist for her to bump. It took her two distracted tries.

Only Brufen didn't seem awed – he barely glanced out of the window. "Platform is sufficiently clear for maneuvering," he said brusquely. No-one responded. Brufen shot Betancourt a look. "Pilot?" he said.

Betancourt gave a little laugh and a shake of his head, but grabbed the control yoke and flicked switches on the console. "Bringing for'ard engines online," he said. A low rumble was heard outside the gondola, rising quickly to a roar as the jets screamed up to temperature. "Ignition on one and two." He pulled back on the yoke. "Deploying aerofoils."

_Aegis_' nose lifted, the deck of the bridge pitching upwards, and she moved forward, ascending as she did so. Above and around them, felt rather than heard, metal groaned and stressed. Quartermain gulped and lifted her first two fingers to her forehead before she could stop herself, bringing them down to her chest and nervously fiddling with the plates of her armor as she realized what she was instinctively doing. Cornelius glanced down at her, one eyebrow very slightly raised. "Sorry, Sir," she murmured.

"We'll talk later," he promised in a whisper.

"Structure's holding," Brufen assured them. "Just some attachments settling. Nothing's even in the yellow, let alone orange. Aerodynamics report okay, engines are burning well."

"Two's over-firing," Betancourt told him. Brufen started and ran through the data in front of him, turning to correct the pilot but before he could say anything Betancourt tapped the yoke with his fingertips. "Trust me, Brufy," he said with a grin, "she's yawing."

"It's within envelope," Brufen said shortly. "Ascend to six thousand and level off."

Betancourt nodded, his attention on the yoke and readouts in front of him. _Aegis_' rose smoothly, not only ascending because of buoyancy but also her angle through the air. Big Tri fell away below them, more and more of Lake Sinclair being revealed, the long curve of the horizon filling the windows. "Three and climbing," he said, "four . . . four-five . . . . five . . ." His voice trailed off as he eased up on the yoke, sliding the engines down. The roar outside, which had been fading as the air grew thinner, fell off. "Level at six," he said. "Attitude controls to station-keeping."

The deck was flat once more, _Aegis_ as seeming-solid as a building. If it had not been for the view out of the great sweep of windows or the muted humming-roar of the various engines, fans and pumps it would have been impossible to believe you were standing in an aircraft. Brufen tabbed through the HUD, information scrolling past too-fast for anyone else to read. He nodded, satisfied, and spun around in his chair. "_Aegis_ is underway, bluesky clear and untethered," he announced. "Shakedown tests can begin at the Skipper's pleasure."

Anderson nodded herself. "The Skipper is so pleasured," she said magnanimously. "Brufen, you have the conn – start your parade." She turned to face her XO. "Judge Cornelius," she said, "if I could speak with you privately in the squad room for a few moments?"

She didn't wait for a response, instead turning on her heel and walking briskly towards the rear of the bridge. She hit the door control, holding it open while she waited for Cornelius to catch up. Once he had walked through she stepped through herself and let it close behind her. "John . . ." she began.

"If you're having second thoughts about my assignment here, I understand," he said, the words coming out in a rush and trampling over her. "I am certain Daz would have me back at one-nineteen with no hard feelings. Certainly, there would be none on my end. But . . ."

"John," she said again. He ignored her, neither slowing nor stopping to take a breath.

". . . but I have a duty and a responsibility as XO of this vessel, as well as Jackie's designated Tutor. I realize assigning her an ID-locked lawgiver is highly irregular, but she's part of this team and it needs to be ready to flash the bronze at a moment's notice – and that includes Brufen. I know he's senior to me, but I outrank him in the chain of command and I have to establish my authority. Now, as I said, I understand if you think I've overstepped – but, with respect, you hired me to do a job. And that means you give me the latitude to do it, or you find someone else." He let out a shuddering breath and a gave self-comforting little nod.

"You done?" asked Anderson belligerently. "You finished interrupting your commanding . . . ?" Cornelius winced.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," he said.

"_Obviously not_," Anderson said acidly. He snapped to embarrassed attention. "How long you spend coming up with that little speech? Did it take you the whole launch or is Novak's boy so sharp he can make an ass of himself on the fly? You want me to let you do your job? _Fine_. Let me do mine." His face registered incomprehension. "I can read minds," she explained, "you can't. _Quit trying_."

Cornelius looked at her quizzically. "You're not . . . ?"

"Hush," she said with a mischievous smile; she couldn't stay angry with him for long. She lay a finger on his lips – even though the leather the touch crackled like a catching radfire. "I'm not carpeting you for giving Jackie a gun or telling Brufen to plate up – I wasn't _going_ to carpet you at all. I agree with the choices – and even if I didn't _that's your drokking job_. You're XO, you have tactical command of the team and responsibility for Street-readiness. Have some _confidence_ in yourself – I have confidence in you. I wouldn't have tapped you for this otherwise. I wanted John Cornelius – the born-leader Daz earmarked for shift-chief. Now, if I can't have him . . ."

"You have him," he assured her. "You have me, I mean. I just . . ."

She smiled. "I know," she said. "Like I say – I trust you. I'll always have your back because I _know_ you'll always have my six." Slowly, he nodded.

"So, you wanted to talk about . . . ?"

"Don't go so easy on Brufen," she said. "And don't embarrass Jackie. I don't want him thinking he's plated just to give her a good example, and I don't want her spoken about like she's not here. He's a good Judge, a better Tek, but he ain't Psi and he ain't Street. She, Grud-willing, will be both." He nodded, abashed. "And let her have her superstitions," she added suddenly.

Cornelius looked at her for a long second, his mind carefully blank. She might have been about to say something, but then the door opened and Quartermain exited the bridge, squeezing between them. The two of them suddenly noticed just how _tight_ a fit it was for her, and each took a step back from the other. "Nick says the crow's nest is available, Sir," she said without preamble. "We should be tethered, of course," she added. Cornelius looked at her in puzzlement as she moved between the two of them and walked to the armory. Her gauntlet wouldn't open it and so she waited with the long-practiced patience of a woman always ahead of everyone else. "You're going to take me up there, Sir," she explained. "Train me on some kind of gun – I don't recognize it, but my shoulder aches already." She pouted a little. "Actually," she said sheepishly, "can we start sooner rather than later? It's actually _very_ disconcerting to have the pain before the injury."

Cornelius just gaped at her for an instant and then turned to Anderson. "I was going to show her the privateer," he said. "I didn't think she and I would be needed for the bluesky tests, and the flight plan was over Lake Sinclair for the most part. It wouldn't _just_ be some fun for her – she needs to be . . ."

Anderson smiled as she looked at the two of them, each on the cusp of a dream. Quartermain of being trained, Cornelius of being the teacher. And she, herself, felt her dream swell within her – _her_ team, Psi-Division, growing and finding its place in the Department. Acceptance of who she was and what she – and those like her – could really do. She walked towards her locker and opened it, pulling out her duty belt and stitching kit. She sat down, the heels of her boots resting on the table, starting to repair the torn holster. She flicked her head at the ladder. "Go," she said simply.

oOo

"So, where were you baptized?" Cornelius asked.

Quartermain's hands, working on the matte-black length of the privateer sniper rifle, hitched and stilled. She very deliberately swallowed and turned to face him. "It's not illegal, Sir," she reminded him. "I will, however, refrain from . . ."

Cornelius shook his head. "Not if it's not illegal, you won't," he told her. "You're from Boston – Holy Cross Cathedral?" She shook her head.

"The local parish, Sir – St Brigid's. But I was a child, Sir," she explained. "Infant, really – a month or so old. My parents didn't know I'd be joining the Judges and I didn't have a choice."

"You do now," Cornelius said easily. "You still attend Mass?"

She shrugged. "Well, with the Academy . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Cornelius nodded. "I understand," he sympathized. "They don't make it easy. Once you're out, a good chief'll make sure shift patterns accommodate you, though. I'll tell Cassie."

"Please, Sir," she exclaimed. "I don't want to be a bother – I mean, I don't think she . . ."

"Oh, I'm sure she's not," Cornelius said blithely. "But I ain't asking – I'm _telling_." He dismissed her thanks with a gesture at the rifle. "You loaded that thing yet?"

She nodded and stood from where she'd been kneeling by the matte-black weapon. "Yes, Sir," she said, unfolding the bipod and lying down on the deck at his feet. She pressed her eye against the scope and couched the butt into her shoulder. Her stance was serviceable at best. Firmly but not harshly Cornelius nudged her limbs with his boot to correct some of the more egregious flaws.

The crow's nest was larger than its name suggested. Ten feet by twenty, it was a flat deck on the curved dorsal surface of _Aegis'_ envelope, bounded by chest-high railings. A central hatch led downwards into the balloon's interior. At six-thousand feet the air wasn't thin enough for respirators but it was noticeably cold and although the evening was calm the wind pushed hard. Each of them had a tethering cable clipped to their belt and attached to an anchor near the hatch.

"It'll be nice up here once you and Cassandra get the chairs in place," Quartermain remarked. Cornelius, his hands busy with the target-drone launcher, stopped for a moment to look at her with concern. And then he shook his head and realized he'd just have to get used to it.

"_Focus_," he told her. He lifted the launcher and pulled the trigger. The magnetic coils constricted and flung the drone out over the lake. It deployed with a jerk, the hydrogen canister inflating the metalized-plastic balloon and the ducted fans wobbling on the aluminum struts as they spun up to speed. Cornelius moved the tiny joystick on the butt of the gun with his thumb, keeping the drone a couple of hundred yards off _Aegis'_ port bow. "Whenever you're ready," he said.

The crack of the sniper rifle was physically painful, even though the helmet plugs. The privateer was a .50 caliber weapon, four feet long and barely man-portable. It certainly couldn't be fired from a crouching or – Grud-forbid – a standing position by anyone smaller than Cornelius (and maybe not even then). Quartermain yelped as the recoil slammed into her shoulder, painful and bruising even with the compensators and through the armor. The weapon was loaded with tracers and Cornelius watched critically as the streak of actinic light passed four yards to the left and one below the drone. "Up and right," he said.

The next shot wasn't any closer – it missed by a similar amount on the other side. Quartermain winced and fired again – her accuracy actually deteriorated. "Don't hold your breath, and relax into it," advised Cornelius. "And remember the recoil."

"I'm not drokking likely to forget it," she grunted, rubbing her shoulder. Cornelius laughed indulgently.

"I mean it throws you off – fire, reset, repeat," he told her. He crouched by her side and grabbed her shoulder and the stock of the rifle, shuffling them more firmly together. She hissed in pain as her fresh bruises were battered, her feet drawing together. Unceremoniously, he kicked them apart. "Go again," he ordered.

"Got it," said Quartermain triumphantly a split second before she pulled the trigger, her full lips smiling. The drone glittered as the bullet struck it, spinning crazily away. It tumbled for a few seconds and then righted itself, its onboard microprocessor managing to keep it aloft with only three fans. It was moving back to station when Quartermain fired again.

This time, her bullet hit dead in the center of the balloon, the burning phosphor in the tail of the tracer igniting the hydrogen in a cold blue fireball. The sun was touching the horizon now, the curve of the world bathed in ruddy light, the drone shadowed by the looming bulk of _Aegis_. The tinkling fragments of metal caught the light as they tumbled into Lake Sinclair. "Five to kill," said Cornelius. "Let's improve that." He cocked the launcher again, turning around to take a new target-drone from the box near the hatch.

_Aegis_ had flown to the east and then turned starboard, flying slowly north about a mile off the lakeshore. Neither he nor Quartermain had paid much attention to the west, but the view was dramatic. From north to south the sky was a blazing mass of orange and red as the light of the setting sun was filtered through the thickness of the atmosphere and miles and miles of howling rad-dust. The bulk of Big Tri gleamed like a discarded jewel-box beneath them, the lights of the buildings and street lamps winking on as dusk fell. Seen from this angle and elevation, the layout of the great boulevards was clear – like the ribs of a fan they radiated from Martinsfield a mile or so east of Tiger hangar, elevated four-lane highways blazing like tracer-fire with the headlamps of the cars speeding along them. For a second, Cornelius enjoyed the view and then Quartermain called up to him. "You might be able to see the Dream Cruise, Sir," she suggested.

Cornelius glanced down – she'd rolled over and was lying on her back, her ankles crossed and hands linked behind her helmet. He glowered at her, the full effect lost as his face was obscured by the visor and veiled in shadows, and beckoned her up. She rolled to her feet and stood next to him. "What?" he asked.

"The Woodward Dream Cruise," she explained, pointing. "Woodward's one of the boulevards – goes pretty much north-north-west. The Dream Cruise is an antique car rally – dates to before the war, so they say. The largest collection of vintage cars in the world. It's a big deal here – lots of gearheads in Big Tri, you know?" She grinned. "Guys like their cars."

Cornelius chuckled. "I'll bet Brufen's sorry he missed it," he said.

"Cassandra and I wanted to go too," Quartermain said. "They have bands and music – big fifties vibe to it, with poofy skirts and the lacquered hair? We were gonna get glammed up and go shake some cake." She shrugged and smiled up at him "I guess this is worth missing it for," she admitted.

Cornelius laughed again and looked to the west, following the speeding lines of headlights. The range was over ten miles, but the night-vision, stabilization and enhancement of his visor allowed him to see – if not details – enough. He froze. "You said north-north-west?" he asked her.

She nodded. "Yes, Sir," he said. "Woodward boulevard. Why?" She didn't get an answer – he was already in motion, snatching up the privateer and drones, unclipping his tether and opening the hatch. "Sir?" she asked. She looked herself, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar functions of her pale blue helmet's visor. "Oh, _spug!_" she exclaimed as she saw.

Maybe ten miles north of Tiger hangar and Martinsfield, the traffic on the boulevard was stopped, hemmed in closely. The Dream Cruise was supposed to be just that – a cruise. The cars would drive up and down the northern stretch of Woodward, looping back so they cruised a circuit of the elevated highway. What she saw wasn't that. A impromptu roadblock of battered construction vehicles had been set up, stopping the cruisers where they were. Behind them, a block of armed bikers and pickup trucks with heavy weapons mounted in the flatbeds had swept the circuit clear, corralling cars against the roadblock. Quartermain could see citizens kneeling with their hands behind their heads, perps training weapons on them even as they pulled other drivers out of their cars and flung them to the asphalt. There were three dark, bulky shapes behind the wedge of bikes and gun-trucks – car transporters, if she were any judge.

She had to smile at that – she wasn't a Judge yet and, _judging_ by the hollow trip-hammer beat of her heart in her chest, maybe she would never be. She certainly didn't feel cut out for it.

"Cadet!" snapped Cornelius from the hatch. He flicked his head and she ran for it, barely remembering to unclip her tether before she ducked through the hatch. "Report," he ordered as the two of them rattled down the stairs.

"Organized carjacking," she said automatically, training she couldn't even remember receiving kicking in instinctively. "Multiple perps – at least thirty visible, but based on number of vehicles and obscured LsOS presume fifty or more. Mixture of small arms, heavier stuff on modded cit wheels. Big Tri security not visible – presume neutralized."

"How?" asked Cornelius. They were halfway down the series of stairs that led through the maze of gantrywork inside _Aegis'_ canopy. Although large, the space seemed cramped – filled with fuel tanks, buoyancy cells, machinery to control all of the airship's devices, not to mention the access catwalks and crawlways themselves. Everything was white-painted struts of riveted plasteen, the paint thick over the heads of the bolts, blending the different beams together. Blue-white neon tubes illuminated the place with ugly, flat light.

"Execution or bribery," Quartermain said shortly. "They have the firepower and Big Tri corp sec aren't the best. Plenty of money available, too. 20th and early 21st century cars are worth a mint – probably a billion or more creds' worth out there. Perps seem well-organized, but street-level gear and gang colors suggest hired muscle – experienced perp behind it. Didn't get a clear eyeball on the transporters, but I think they had rad-modding. Suggests flight to Cursed Earth – ultimate destination unknown, but likely Canadia."

"Why not MC1?" asked Cornelius, unlatching the hatch into the gondola and dropping through.

"Politics complicates extradition, economy is more cash-based, law-enforcement sucks and has limited co-operation with J-Dept." Quartermain climbed down the ladder carefully, watching where her hands and feet went. Cornelius had dropped through to land on the deck, his boots ringing the lattice-work like a gong. He nodded, not betraying if he were satisfied with her performance or not.

Anderson had jumped to her feet as he hit. "John . . . ?" she asked. "What . . . ?"

Cornelius ignored her. He unlocked the armory and stowed the privateer. "Call it," he ordered shortly.

Quartermain's face gaped and her mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a fish out of water. She straightened into attention. "This vehicle and command is on shakedown, and only two Judges are Street-rated," she said. "We are not a Judicial Asset at this time – we have operational but _not_ engagement clearance. Standard protocol is to advise local LEOs and stand ready to offer assistance."

Cornelius banged twice on the door to the bridge – it slid open to reveal a puzzled and pissed Brufen. Anderson realized she'd have to go textbook to get a response from Cornelius. "Sitrep, XO!" she snapped,barelyonly mock-angry.

"Mass carjacking at the Dream Cruise," he said shortly. "Fifty perps, well-armed. Hostages."

Brufen's eyes and mouth took on the shape of perfect O's. "Oh, my word!" he exclaimed. "Well, that's terrible – what . . . what shall we do?"

Anderson glanced at Cornelius, her mind made up. "That's what the XO asked _you_, Cadet," she said crisply.

"I believe I answered the XO's question, Skipper," Quartermain quavered, her right leg shaking like her voice. She shifted her voluptuous hips, transferring weight to it so it stilled.

"You gave me SOP, Cadet." Cornelius snapped. "Think I can't read? I told you to _call it._" There was a dreadful pause. "Is there a reason I'm hearing nothing but the engines, Cadet?" he asked meaningfully.

Quartermain's face worked, her eyes thick with worry. She bit her lip and clenched her fists; she knew the answer he wanted, the answer she wanted to give – what she _knew_ was the right answer, the black-and-bronze answer. She gathered her courage. "Sir," she croaked, her mouth dry. "Sir, you deploy. Engage, sentence, execute."

Cornelius nodded, ignoring for now her chosen pronoun, and turned to Brufen. He looked the Tek-Judge up and down. "Plate up," he ordered. "Nick!" he called, ignoring the older man's shocked gasp. "Gimme options."

Betancourt was already lifting _Aegis'_ nose, ascending and turning to the east, bringing the other two jets online and accelerating. He leaned back in his chair, turning his head but keeping his eyes on the controls. "Not sure I'd want to cut lose with unguided weapons, JC," he shouted. "This smart spug's pretty sharp, but . . ."

Even through Betancourt couldn't see him, Cornelius nodded. "Yeah," he agreed, "I hear you, Nick – too-many hostages." He reached into the armory, pulling out a widowmaker-carbine and tossing it to Anderson, taking a full-length shotgun himself. Hands moving automatically, the two of them locked and loaded. "We go old school," Cornelius said, "boots on the asphalt. You can put us in the LZ?"

Betancourt hit the release on his harness and leaped from his chair, leaning forward to tab a final few controls. "Roger that," he said – his normally-laconic voice was suddenly clipped and clear, every syllable precisely articulated. "_Aegis_ is on auto station-keeping, I'm warming _Manta_. She's got laser-guided weapons – you paint it, I light it up."

Cornelius nodded and clipped what looked like a pencil-flashlight underneath his shotgun. Betancourt scrambled up the ladder and through the hatch. Cornelius glanced at his fellow Judges. "Who's drop rated?" he asked.

None of them responded, although Anderson at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. "_Okay_," said Cornelius a little too-brightly. "Everyone pay attention; this is a standard rappelling harness . . ."

"Wait!" exclaimed Brufen. "You're not seriously considering this, are you? You want to _engage_? This is a shakedown cruise!" exclaimed Brufen.

The muscles at the points of Cornelius' jaw bunched. "Yeah," he said slowly. "So let's shake things."

Brufen grit his teeth. "We should request and wait for backup!" he advised tightly. The Street Judge wasn't impressed.

"Backup, Brufen?" Cornelius wasn't even trying to keep the scorn out of his voice. "We've got four Judges, a military pilot, and enough firepower to vaporize a hab-block. How much more do you need before you feel 'backed up'?"

Quartermain gasped in realization, the reality of her dream hitting her like a gutshot. It was happening _now_ – who'd she being trying to fool by saying she was ready? _Wake up, Jackie, wake up . . ._ She trembled, her lip quivering, trying not to raise her hand like a Cadet in class. "Erm, three Judges and one _very_ scared little girl, Sir," she quavered.

Cornelius looked at her, put a single fingertip against the bronze shield on her chest. Despite herself, she looked down. He didn't flick her nose – gently, he lifted her chin. "You want the dream?" he asked seriously.

"Sir?" she asked. She looked into his eyes; saw the determination, the pride, the certainty the spug had hit the fan – but most importantly the assurance he knew she could do this even if _she_ didn't think she could. She slowly nodded and the dimples in her cheeks smoothed out as she set her jaw and snapped to attention. "Sir! Yes, Sir."

Cornelius offered her a widowmaker-carbine. "Then quit trying to wake up," he said simply. She took the gun without a word, competently-if-not-expertly checking and loading it.

"Cornelius!" Brufen exclaimed. "She's a _Cadet_! She is _not_ cleared for live-fire engagement!"

Quartermain cast her eyes over her weapon one last time, and then very deliberately racked the slide. Holding the shotgun at port arms, she fixed Brufen with a cool stare. "Neither are you," said pointed out flatly, "but at least we can call mine a _field-trip_ – what's your excuse?"

Brufen glanced at her with contempt so well-controlled he was practically shuddering. "Cornelius, I must protest . . ." he began. The Street Judge was ignoring him.

"Remember your training, Jackie," he said, his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "Just like a drill. You _protest_, Brufen?" he asked, straightening. "_Plate. Up._ What do you think we're out here for; to test some tech? To ignore anything that doesn't make Cassie twitch? What are we, what are we here to do?"

Brufen looked at him for a long second, and then he softly closed his eyes and nodded, accepting the rebuke. He opened his locker and pulled out his armor web. "We're Judges," he agreed. "We're here to enforce The Law."

"Wrong." Anderson's voice was the crack of a whip. All eyes turned to her as she buckled on her repaired belt. "We are The Law. We're here to flash the bronze."

**A/n :** A couple of little points of information etc. - the lyric Quartermain and Betancourt sing is from "Wings" by Little Mix (a manufactured British pop band). They are tremendously upbeat and fun and a little overproduced. Quartermain isn't actually quoting them – she is quoting one of her KT-pop stars. But, I am going to use expys of modern singers for them – who noticed _Kitty Purry_ in "Aegis"? :)

Although in the comics authentic Christianity has been suppressed in favor of the "Justice-Department-Approved" version, this never really sat well with me. Firstly, there is a Vatican Mega City in the comics, and they are only set 100 years from now – Christianity has survived 2000 years of various sorts of persecution so another century seems easy. While the "official state church" is a thing in modern China, it just seems like it wouldn't fly in Mega City One (with its law being based – explicitly – on "the first law" of the Declaration of Independence). Christianity – and especially Catholicism – has a long and storied tradition among law-enforcement officers in America, and also a long history of working with the reigning powers to bring order, charity and salvation to the people. Nor is Christianity incompatible with the Judges' law – the law is harsh, but fair, something Christianity has never had a problem with. I envisage a surprising number of Judges being Christian, with the Boston-Irish Quartermain definitely being Catholic.

The privateer sniper rifle is something I invented. I imagine it is similar to the Barrett M82 (called the M107 in the US military) also known as the "Barrett Light Fifty". The Judges would need this kind of long-range, anti-materiel rifle. I called it the privateer as a reference to the modern Canadian folksong "Barrett's Privateers".

There are a few references to places in modern metro Detroit (which is where Big Tri is); "Lake Sinclair" and "Lake Eerie" are post-atomic variations on Lake Saint Clair and Lake Erie. The "Belial Enclave" is on Belle Isle (a beautiful park in the Detroit River). The NewRenCen is a reference to the Renaissance Center (known as RenCen) skyscraper in Detroit. "Martinsfield" is a literal translation of "Campus Martius", a square in the center of downtown Detroit. It is the original surveying point, and the big avenues – Woodward, Gratiot etc. - extend from it like a fan. You can see all these places on a good map.

The Woodward Dream Cruise is a real thing, happening every August north of Detroit. Such a thing might survive the wars – or be re-established. Everyone always loves cars! The real Dream Cruise has a 50s vibe – many classic cars from that era – but that is the _19_50s in the real world. I think Quartermain digs the _20_50s vibe . . . although I don't really know what that is like!

"Canadia" is not just a jokey way of saying Canada, but is also the future Canada in the comics.

Alright – you've read this far; why not review? Box is right underneath! Just type what you thought. If you sign in, I promise I'll write back and will return the favor!


	4. Drop

**Prog 4 : Drop**

_Manta_ detached from _Aegis_ with a series of mechanical clanks as anchors and latches disengaged and retracted. The fighter sat atop a precision-engineered slab of heat-shielding, designed to vent the searing exhaust gasses away from the airship's envelope when the plane docked. With a screaming roar the main turbofans lit, rising to a crescendo of burning noise. Slowly, the vectored exhausts lifted the shield-shaped aircraft up and away from _Aegis_. The airship bobbed in the V-TOL jets' wake, attitude control fans working to keep it in place. "_Separation complete_," came Betancourt's clipped voice in the Judge's earpieces – radio was the only way to be heard over the scream of the engines. "Manta_ independent callsign registered._" The tone of the engines changed to a higher-pitch and the plane lurched forward. "_Clear to maneuver – engaging ramscrams in five, four, ready, steady . . ._"

Betancourt's "_Go!_" was masked by a sudden explosion of noise – 'sound' was a petty description for the aural assault from the engines – and the physical impact on the Judges as the craft accelerated. Teeth snapped together and heads jerked, helmets bouncing against the walls where the four of them were maglocked in place.

"Grud on a Greenie . . ." muttered Anderson. Brufen was pale, his face gray and running with sweat. Quartermain's face was severe, her sensual lips compressed, her jaw locked and nostrils flaring as she struggled to control her breathing.

Cornelius flexed in his restraints, riding _Manta_'s acceleration like a bike. All he would have needed to do was chew gum to complete the image of indifferent, radiating calm. "Not the wildest ride I've had today . . ." he murmured.

"_Thirty to LZ!_" called Betancourt. "_Deploy window is ten._"

"Thirty to drop, window is ten, confirm!" shouted Cornelius. "We ready?" he asked his fellow Judges. His voice echoed in their earpieces.

"Oh, Dok no . . ." muttered Brufen.

Anderson nudged him none-too-gently in the ribs. "Judge the drokk up!" she ordered. "You wear the eagle? Fly like one!" She looked over at her XO and grinned – but there was carefully-controlled fear behind it. "Ready!" she shouted.

"Just like a drill, just like a drill, just like a drill . . ." Quartermain chanted as a mantra.

"Jackie?" asked Cornelius.

"I am The Law, I am justice, I am The Law, I am justice, I am . . ."

"She's good," Anderson assured him.

"_Ten to drop!_" Betancourt reported. "_Nine, eight, seven . . ._" His count continued as Brufen gasped.

"Haven't done this in ages . . ." he muttered.

"Dropped?" asked Anderson. He shook his head.

"Engaged . . ." he moaned, trembling in his restraints.

Quartermain's eyes snapped open. "It's like riding a bike," she said suddenly.

He turned to face her. "You mean you don't forget how?" he asked hopefully. She shook her head.

"Naw – if you try it without a helmet we scrape you off the tarmac and ship to you resyk in a bucket," she said dryly. Brufen gulped, swallowing bile. She closed her eyes and continued her chant – but this time with a self-assured little grin on her face. "I am The Law, I am justice, I am . . ."

"_. . . two, one, window!_" The engines screamed and _Manta_'s airframe squealed with stressing metal as Betancourt flung it into effective reverse, thrusting the vectored exhausts forward. The nose pitched upward, the plane corkscrewing to lose speed. The Judges lurched in their restraints, crimson lights and warning klaxons _whoop-whooping_ like a killbot's heartbeat. The drop-ramp crashed open, revealing the confusion of the stalled traffic of the Dream Cruise hundreds of feet below. The roar of the engines and the wash of the jets battered hotly into the droproom. _Manta_ lurched and rocked – with the doors open, the aerodynamics were ruined, the engines throttled-down to protect the airborne assault unit, the plane held aloft by inertia and the fact gravity hadn't quite noticed it yet. "_Window is closing! Eight, seven, six . . ._"

"Go! Go! Go!" ordered Cornelius, slapping the release button on the front of his restraints and sprinting down the ramp. He leaped off it, widowmaker in his right hand, left grabbing for a cluster flash-bang. The cable whipped through the arrestor gear, barely slowing him from free-fall. The sun was set, the pale blue of the sky long-gone – now the western curve was justice-blue, the rest of it sentencing-black. Most of the streetlights were harsh silver halogens, but there were pools of glowing bronze cast by just-warming sodium lamps. He seemed to hang in the air above the crime scene for a few instants, his visor's HUD crawling with data and warnings, the adrenaline of anticipation washing away wounds and weariness from the Cursed Earth and Cedar Point.

These few seconds were precious jewels beyond price in combat – the perps below him were caught flat-footed by the sudden appearance of _Manta_ and the Judges' airborne assault, gaping and stunned, fumbling at best for weapons. He assessed the LZ, chose targets and prioritized them. He primed the cluster grenade and tossed it.

In _Manta_'s droproom, Quartermain inhaled deeply and hit her release, sprinting shakily forward and diving off the jump ramp with a screamed battlecry; "I am The Law! I am justice! _I am The Law!_"

_It ain't original,_ thought Anderson, _but there are _reasons_ things are classics._ She hit her own release, glancing over at Brufen. The Tek-Judge – his justice-blue uniform purple in the crimson lights – was quivering and quaking, shaking his head. "I . . . I can't . . ." he mouthed.

With an unceremonious curse, Anderson slammed the butt of her shotgun into his restraints' release and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. She threw him stumbling forward, helping him off the ramp with a hearty kick in the seat of his pants. He screamed and flailed as he fell, computer-controlled arrestor gear keeping him from tumbling. Anderson grinned and charged down the ramp herself, kicking off it just as it started to close.

The cluster bomb exploded fifty feet above the elevated highway, scattering miniaturized flash-bangs over a wide area. A second later, they detonated – bubbles of ear-splitting noise and eye-boiling brightness, sending perps and hostages alike stumbling deaf-and-blind, guns dropped as they clutched at their faces. Cornelius shifted his weight, angling his body so his boot crashed into the back of a perp's neck as he landed. Slamming the unfortunate man face-first into the tarmac he swung the shotgun and sent another crashing backwards with a shattered jaw. "Judges!" he roared, helmet-speakers amplifying his voice over the scream of _Manta_'s engines. "You're under arrest!"

Quartermain touched down next to him, landing awkwardly, one leg going out so she slipped down onto one knee. She recovered quickly in an _I-totally-meant-to-do-that_ way, lifting her shotgun to her shoulder and bracing her elbow on her thigh. She fired without thinking, training turning to instinct in the heat of battle, and a perp went down with a sucking chest-wound. "Hey!" she yelled, standing up and charging forward. "My boss don't talk for his health!" She fired again, hitting a ganger in the shoulder and sending him spinning away.

Cornelius sprinted forward, dropping perps with shotgun blasts, leaping atop the gleaming lipstick-red and chrome glory of a classic car. He was no expert, but it said _Ultima_ on the back and he was pretty sure the logo was Nissan. He had no idea how much such a thing might be worth, but it had to be tens if not hundreds of thousands. "Throw down your weapons!" he shouted. "Hands on your head!"

Anderson hit in the space he and Quartermain had cleared, shotgun blazing. Most of the perps in that area had been neutralized; Quartermain had cuffed one to the rims of a _freaking Oldsmobile_ which looked like it still had the original wood-effect vinyl! _Oh, don't scratch it, don't scratch it, please don't scratch it!_ she thought at Quartermain furiously – PsiDiv could_ not_ afford a lawsuit for the value of that priceless antique. She swept her gaze around the LZ – the perps were recovering from the stun grenades, gathering their wits. She reached out with her psynses. "Leader's bailing!" she shouted. "Blue transporter!"

"My fox!" yelled Cornelius. He set off at a run across the parked cars, leaping from roof to roof, boots denting bodywork and scratching paint. The bulky transporters were behind the gun-trucks and bikes, vintage cars being loaded onto them. One of the transporters was reversing away, banging into the others in the driver's panic. The bikers raised their guns, the heavy weapons on the backs of the pickups turning towards Cornelius. He dived for the gap between two cars, his shoulder crumpling the door panel of a mint-condition Tahoe as bullets whipped through the air, tearing up the asphalt and chewing vehicles to scrap. Ignoring the anguished cry from the car's owner, he smashed the nearside window with the butt of his shotgun and shot the opposite one out. Poking his head up, he hit two of the gun-trucks with the laser. "Targets painted, Nick!" he cried. "Light 'em up!"

"_Targets acquired_." Betancourt's voice was detached in his ear, precise-but-playful – Cornelius could imagine the face the pilot was making; calm, collected, heavy-lidded, only half in the now. "_Fox one, fox one. Missiles away._" Twin lances of light punched into the gun-trucks from above and behind, massive smoke-edged orange-red fireballs blossoming and scattering bikes and gangers like toys. Screams were flung back towards Cornelius on the hot air, the Chevy he was sheltering behind rocking with the blastwave. As he leaped up and vaulted over the hood of the car, _Manta_ howled overhead, heavy-caliber full-auto fire from the wing-mounted cannons tearing into the remains of the perps' vehicles. "_Justice Department!_" Betancourt roared over the radio and the external PA system. "_Stand down!_"

Brufen had landed seconds after Quartermain and Anderson, saved from fractures by the semi-intelligent harness which slowed his descent in the final few meters to nothing more than a bone-jarring _thud!_ Even so, he stumbled, the arrestor gear piling on top of him as it fell, tangling him in the cable. By the time he had extricated himself and got to his feet, the two women had secured the immediate area. Perps were kneeling on the floor, hands behind their heads, some cuffed, others lying dead or dying with bullet wounds. "Brufen!" Anderson ordered. "Hold the scene!" She gestured with the barrel of her gun. "Jackie! With me!"

"Yes, Ma'am!" snapped Quartermain. Her carbine had run dry – she tossed it to the ground and drew her lawgiver, utterly unable to suppress the joyous grin that stretched her face when it cycled and came online as it recognized her DNA. Her blood was singing, her limbs moving of their own volition, training sweeping through her without conscious thought, all her actions instinct. She set off after Anderson, the two of them weaving through the cars behind the barrels of their guns, freeing hostages and taking out perps step by textbook step as they moved towards the construction equipment roadblock.

Cornelius leaped from the last of the vintage cars, holding his breath as he ran through the burning wreckage. He'd shipped his shotgun, his lawgiver cracking as he executed a couple of injured perps. He made it through the fire and found himself between two of the massive transporters, hemmed in on each side. Ahead of him, the blue transporter was still reversing away, bouncing between the others with sparks and screams of scraping metal. Gangers with battered-but-serviceable rifles blocked his path.

He dived into one of the transporters' wheel-wells, bullets ringing around him, one or two bouncing off his armor. He stuck his head and arm out of cover – the perps were inexperienced street-toughs, posturing with the guns without any real idea how to use them. They hadn't sought cover – and two shots from Cornelius meant they wouldn't make that mistake again. He jumped out from behind the massive tire and ran forward after the reversing transporter.

Overhead, _Manta_ howled as it banked and swept back. "_I have lock,_" Betancourt reported. In Cornelius' HUD, flashing lights and an overlain-outline showed just _what_ he was locked on to – the transporter carrying the 'jacker-in-chief. "_Do I have the green light?_"

"Negative," ordered Cornelius tightly. "I don't want the insurance claims." The transporter wasn't full, but he could see it was loaded with enough classic cars to make the paperwork a nightmare. "Patrol and protect, do not engage without authorization."

"_Man, you ground command are all the same!_" Betancourt lamented, the smile in his voice clear. Cornelius didn't answer, instead running after the transporter.

It had reversed clear of the tunnel made by the other two, turning so it was broadside to the highway. There was a frantic figure in the driver's seat, struggling with the awkward gear shift, furiously spinning the steering wheel so he could turn. "Rapid fire," said Cornelius calmly and shredded the rubber of the near-side wheel with a short burst. He'd stopped sprinting – the perp wasn't going anywhere. "Armour piercing," he ordered as he walked forward, allowing himself a _certain_ amount of swagger as the panicking carjacker struggled with the blown-out tire, the rim of the wheel grinding as it dug a gouge in the tarmac. Three hardened bullets tore through the engine like a blowtorch through synthi-spread. It spluttered and died silently.

Back at the LZ, Brufen spun at a yelled challenge. "Drop the gun, lawman!" A perp was standing ten yards away, using a sobbing woman as a human shield, his pistol pressed to her neck. Brufen brought his lawgiver up two-handed, shuffling his feet to get them into a range-perfect stance. "Now, I'm going to walk out of here . . ." the perp said.

Brufen licked his dry lips. "Release . . . release the hostage," he said, his voice high and wavering. "Your crimes carry multiple life sentences – do not make it worse for yourself by compounding your felonies." The perp laughed.

"You don't do this much, do you?" he correctly surmised. He pushed the gun harder into the woman's neck, moving so she was covering more of his body – there was no safe shot any Judge could take, let alone this uncertain boy-in-blue. "I'm gonna count to three. One . . ." Behind the visor of his dark-blue helmet, Brufen narrowed his eyes, considering. He nodded and lowered his gun. The perp smiled and chuckled.

"Ricochet," Brufen said calmly, and shot the ground between the perp's feet.

The rubber-titanium shell hit the asphalt and bounced off, deflecting at a shallow angle to hit the side of a car. The perp managed to start laughing with a mocking "Heh-heh . . ." before the bullet bounced back and opened a keyhole in the side of his head. Abruptly, he stopped laughing and crumpled to the floor.

"Math," said Brufen by way of satisfied explanation, an instant before a gigantic lumbering shape flung a car aside and swatted at him with a massive fist. It caught him a glancing blow in the shoulder, his armor taking most of the blow, the edge of a plate driven into his arm, numbing it. He was flung across the highway with the wind knocked out of him, sliding and skidding to a halt, the material of his jumpsuit scoured to the blood on the rough tarmac. Half-stunned and with his helmet knocked off, he fired frantically at the bulky mass of the exo-suit bearing down on him. The perps must have been using it to help load the cars on the transporters – it was a heavy industrial model, common in Big Tri, with a box of crude armor welded over the pilot compartment.

Citizens screamed and scattered – the mechanical monster ignored them, concentrating on the Judge. Bullets bounced off hydraulic limbs and makeshift armor – a better shot might have been able to hit fluid lines or joints, but it was unlikely the Tek-Judge could have managed that on his best day at the range let alone stunned, wounded and flustered. The suit grabbed a car between it and the Judge, crumpling the bodywork with its claw as it lifted it, tossing the vehicle off the elevated highway like a discarded toy.

"High Explosive!" said Brufen with relish – he'd never actually fired one of these shells, not even on the range, but if there ever was a moment to use one it was now and he would be _drokked_ if he didn't enjoy it. The lawgiver cycled, but unsatisfactorily, the tone of the metallic note somehow wrong.

And then Brufen realized his pistol's Category II magazine was partially-loaded with training shells, because he never used it anywhere except the range and who would have thought he was _ever_ going to deploy? His 'Hi-Ex' shells were simple smoke-grenades.

"Oh, dear . . ." he muttered. He winced and looked away from the behemoth about to smear him to paste, seeing a particular antique car just behind the exo-suit. And then he smiled. "Standard!" he called and shot the Pinto in the gas tank.

The bulk of the exo-suit shielded Brufen from the worst of the resulting explosion, but ripped shards of razor-sharp metal and a spray of burning fuel tore through the unarmored rear of the suit, shredding the pilot to a roasted hash inside the pilot's compartment. The exo-suit froze in mid-strike, swaying back and forth. Brufen scrambled clear as it toppled forward with a ringing crash. He studied it carefully for a few seconds as the compressors cycled down and the hydraulics relaxed and then nodded, satisfied. He swept his gaze over the cuffed and kneeling perps, drawing himself up to his full height and lifting his chin. He put his boot on the exo-suit, posing with his smoking lawgiver held two-handed at his shoulder.

"I am . . . The Law," he said.

In the cab of the transporter the carjacker cursed and frantically tried the ignition again and again. He yelled in panic as the door was torn open and Cornelius hauled him out of the driver's seat, throwing him to the ground. He tried to get up, but Cornelius' knee in his back pinned him down and drew a cry of pain from him. "You're under arrest," said Cornelius as he cuffed him. "Grand theft auto, conspiracy to commit, criminal association, failure to properly signal a turn." He hauled him upright, getting a look at him. "Memphis Raines?" he asked, amazed. It couldn't be anyone else – the crazed look and ridiculous hair of the famous carjacker was unmistakeable. "Drokk it, man, what _is_ it with you?" he asked. "Half of the time you pick the best jobs – award-winning stuff. And the other half it's like it's amateur hour." He didn't wait for a response, instead marching his perp back towards the LZ.

Anderson and Quartermain had reached the impromptu roadblock – most of the perps had fled, fleeing northward, but a few had remained. Anderson gestured with her shotgun. "Outta there!" she ordered. "Move!" Terrified, with their hands raised, they complied. "Cuff 'em," she ordered Quartermain, stowing the widowmaker and clambering up the bucket supports of a big yellow digger so she could stand on the roof of the cab. Almost wearily she drew her lawgiver and sent precise shots out into the night.

Quartermain was cuffing the final perp when something flashed through her awareness. "Cass! Down!" she screamed. Anderson instinctively dropped to one knee, spinning and firing as she did so. That probably saved her life – the bullets that would have torn through her spine and kidneys whipped past her head and shoulders. One clipped her helmet, ringing it like a bell and knocking her off the digger with a cry. "Cassandra!" screamed Quartermain in anguish.

The moment of distraction let the perp wrench himself free. He punched her in the face and slammed her against a rusty pneumatic drill. He lunged for her and pinned her helplessly against the machine, his hands squeezing her throat. "Little Judge-girl!" he spat contemptuously.

Anderson's snap-shot hit the perp who'd fired at her, tearing through the muscle of his thigh. He clutched at his wound with a cry of pain, dropping his gun. Brufen ran towards him, clambering over the fallen 'suit, struggling and lurching on the uneven footing, aiming his lawgiver as best as he could. "On your knees!" he yelled in a frantic frenzy. "Now-now-now!" The perp crashed down, more due to his leg going out than anything else, linking his hands behind his head as the Tek-Judge covered him with a shaking weapon.

Quartermain choked and gasped as the perp throttled her. She snarled in anger and drove her stiff, locked fingers into his solar plexus, sending him staggering back. She grabbed his wrist in both her hands and spun, throwing him over her shoulders to land on the floor in a winded heap. Dispassionately, she put her boot behind his shoulder and wrenched with the full strength of her arms and hips. He screamed in agony as humerus and scapular separated, his clavicle breaking with a particularly-disgusting wet snap.

"My name," she said through gritted teeth, "is Judicial-Cadet Jacqueline Fiona Quartermain. And you're under arrest, you son of a spug." She wiped her mouth – shining in the harsh halogen streetlights, her pale blue glove came away streaked with red. "Cassandra?" she called frantically, peering between the muddy yellow vehicles.

Anderson was kneeling on the ground on the other side of the roadblock, her helmet cracked and lying next to her. She was holding her head in her hands, her shoulders shuddering with pain and her cheeks running with tears. "I'm good," she managed. "Just . . . _owwww!_" She fumbled on her belt for a bottle and popped it open, her shaking hands scattering little white pills on the road. She picked one up with trembling fingers and slipped it into her mouth, grimacing as she crunched it between her teeth and swallowed the harsh powder.

Quartermain beamed with delight, relief flooding through her. She narrowed her eyes and spun on her heel, paying no attention to the perp she'd crippled. She stalked purposefully between the jammed cars, heading towards the fallen exo-suit. Brufen was standing atop it, his gun trained on a kneeling perp with a rifle lying in front of him. Thermal imaging in her visor showed it had been fired recently. "He shot Cassandra?" she asked.

Brufen nodded. "I've got him," he told her, moving his lawgiver so it caught her attention. "Cuff him."

Quartermain looked at the perp for a second, and then drew her own weapon. "Attempted murder of a Judge," she said coldly.

A queasy look spread over Brufen's face. "_I've got him!_" he shouted desperately.

Quartermain didn't even acknowledge him. She lifted her lawgiver and pointed it directly between the perp's eyes. Pleading horror flashed through them as it came up. At the last instant, he flinched and turned his head away. "Please . . ." he mouthed.

She didn't pause or hesitate. She fired.

The ammo-read in her visor's HUD dropped by one and the kneeling perp dropped, too. He tumbled with a neat hole punched in the side of his head, hitting the asphalt loose-limbed, a marionette with cut strings. She remembered her dream and stepped to the side, putting herself between Brufen and the final perp. Behind her, she could hear Brufen gasping and heaving, trying to process what he had seen and she had done.

She looked over iron sights at a ganger swinging at her with a crowbar. She fired again, but her shot went through empty space as he stumbled to the side. A widowmaker round had slammed into him, entering under his arm and exiting through the opposite clavicle. He flopped to the ground, dead before he hit.

"Clear!" called Cornelius, slowing from the sprint he'd used to arrive in time.

"Cl . . . clear!" stuttered Brufen.

From where she'd laboriously climbed back atop the cab of the digger, Anderson waved her shotgun to attract their attention. "Yoo-hoo!" she called. "Clear!"

"_Visible hostiles neutralized,_" Betancourt's voice said in their earbeads. "_Big Tri Judiciary informed – inbound._"

Cornelius turned to her. "Call it, Cadet," he ordered.

She swept the scene, taking stock of the smashed cars, the burning wreckage, the dead and the dying, the cuffed perps and sobbing citizens. Above her, _Manta_ banked as Betancourt swept over the LZ. Very deliberately, she safetied and holstered her lawgiver.

"All clear," she called.

**A/n :** In a very early Judge Dredd comic, there was a story about carjackers who were stealing vintage cars. The satire was that these very valuable (in the 22nd century) cars were cheap and terrible cars in the 1970s (when the comic was published). A lot of them were British cars, too (British comic) – things like Reliant Robins, Ford Cortinas etc. etc. I tried to do a little of that here – the faux-wood panel Oldsmobile, a Chevy Tahoe, a Nissan Ultima). And, of course, the exploding Pinto gets a shout-out!

Not a lot else to say – I tried to give everyone something to do (although Cornelius and Anderson – having had their own action elsewhere – get a little less than others. We sort of gloss-over what they do) and tried to show some characterization and development. Quartermain gets the lion's share, of course – it is, after all, her story.

Anyway – what do you think? Review box is right underneath – just type what you thought! I always return the review love!


	5. Hand Off

**Prog 5 : Hand-Off**

Anderson found Cornelius herding the last of the perps into the catch-wagon, slamming the door closed and banging on it to let the auxiliary know he should set off. He turned to face his commanding officer, automatically coming to attention and snapping a fast-but-respectful salute. "Twenty-three grabs, thirty-nine slabs including some of the hostages. Grabs interrogated, sentenced, en route to the 'cubes. Forensics are finishing up with the slabs – meat-wagons standing by to take them to resyk. Tiger and HOJ have a preliminary report, awaiting final. Big Tri Judiciary are on scene – we should be able to hand off within five," he reported crisply.

Anderson lifted a presspulp cup. "I got coffee," she said guilelessly.

His poise cracked and he smiled. "Good to be the boss," he remarked dryly.

She lifted a fiberpress nest with four more cups in it. "Better to be part of the team," she said. He took one and sipped at it. Anderson looked around; Quartermain was speaking with a heavyset Judge, one of the Big Tri Judiciary, and Brufen was waving citizens and auxiliaries away from a large open patch of highway. "He's gonna bring _Manta_ down here?" she asked. Cornelius shrugged.

"You got a better idea how we can get back aboard _Aegis_?" he asked, not unreasonably. He looked at her with concern – there was an ugly bruise on her temple to go with the black eye. "How you doing?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Better than my helmet," she said. "That probably saved my life."

Cornelius nodded. "Yeah," he said. "You don't normally wear one."

She smiled. "Jackie told me I should – this time, at least," she said. Cornelius took a long, introspective pull at his coffee.

"She's going to take some getting used to," was all he said.

"Mmm-hmm," agreed Anderson, her nose in her own cup. They watched as Brufen snapped a flare and tore it into two burning sections. Holding one in each hand he walked backwards through the space he'd cleared, beckoning with the impromptu marshalling wands. From out of the starless, light-polluted night sky above, _Manta_ descended on four columns of screaming exhaust, lowering itself with impossible slowness to come to rest on the highway. The blacktop softened under the fiery jets, molten tar oozing up as the heavy landing gear squished it. The deafening roar of the engines cycled to silence, the scorching hurricane of the jetwash dying. Cornelius and Anderson lowered their hands from shielding their faces. "So, how'd she do?"

"You asking as her commanding officer?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Do I have any other options?"

"I guess not," he admitted. He swallowed another mouthful of coffee – it wasn't good and he wasn't thirsty, nor did he need the diuretic of the caffeine after the dehydration of the desert and action, but it was an excuse to not speak for the second he needed to gather his thoughts. "Solid pass for her age," he said. "Textbook adherence to protocol, good adaptability, effective use of rhetoric and psychology. She's aware of her own weaknesses and took steps to mitigate them. Her marksmanship with the widowmaker was acceptable – a low pass, but a pass nevertheless. Can't grade her on the lawgiver – didn't see her use it."

"You saw her use it once," Anderson reminded him darkly.

He shrugged dismissively. "Can't give her a marksmanship grade on _that_, Cassie," he said, deliberately obtuse. "Any comments you want to make?" he asked meaningfully.

"Significant emotional attachment to other Judges," Anderson said crisply. "There's the potential for that to influence her judicial decisions."

"Always is," admitted Cornelius. "Didn't happen here, though – her sentencing was textbook, and she enforced and commuted with an excellent eye to deterrent through visibility. On that, at least, she rates a perfect grade. And sentencing is the most important thing we do – my report will reflect that."

Anderson narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. "You don't know if she executed that perp because it was the correct sentence or if she was angry he shot me," she said tightly.

"And, unless you were inside her head – which you might have been," Cornelius realized, "neither do you. My report will reflect what I _saw_. What she _did_. If you want to make a separate report, I can assure you her designated Tutor _will_ pay attention to it and give it due weight. But, Judge Anderson," he said seriously, "I will remind you that reporting guidelines are _very_ clear and they have _not_ yet caught up with your Division. You report what you _saw happen_, not motivations, reasons or feelings – no matter how you might have learned them."

"_Our_ Division," she said. She smiled at him. "Deputy Chief of Psi."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Takes some getting used to," he admitted. He clinked his cup against the rim of hers and picked another out of the nest. "Jackie did good," he said. "And I mean that both ways. Besides," he added as a parting shot as he took the coffee over to her, "this team needs someone who cares."

Anderson watched him go, shaking her head. She turned as Brufen and Betancourt approached. The Tek was battered and bruised, his uniform jumpsuit torn with scrapes of blood visible beneath, but he was animated and excited – perhaps a little too-much as the backwash of adrenaline flowed through him. The pilot was flushed, his eyes bright, his movements on the verge of dancing. This had been, she realized, his first combat-mission in years – and it had all come flowing back to him as a welcome river of muscle-memory and instinct.

Something made her brush against him with her psynses – his mindscape was a verdant jungle, a flowing sea of undulating green canopy brightened here and there with a wild spray of tropical flowers. But there was something stirring in the shadows beneath the canopy, things done in the dark and best left there. The sun was bright on the leaves, but underneath them it did not reach. There were secrets there, and as the wind the return to arms had summoned blew over the branches it threatened to pull them back and let the sunlight reveal the dark secrets that lay hidden beneath.

She held out the coffees towards them. "What, no liquor?" Betancourt asked, spreading his hands. He turned to Brufen. "It's bad enough I can't have my victory cigar," he said. He was jokey enough, but it was clear it hid a delicate fragility. Anderson contrived to touch his hand when he took the coffee. Her psychic fingers brushed comfortingly over the meteorology of his mindscape, trying to calm the wind before it blew into a storm. Seen by her psynses, the movement of the canopy stilled.

Brufen had taken the other coffee, but he was far from drinking it. He made expansive gestures with his hands, scalding liquid splashing about. "Did you _see_?" he asked. "The platform functioned _perfectly_!"

Anderson smiled at his infectious enthusiasm. "I take it you're happy with the shakedown, Brufen?" she asked. His face demurred into serious annoyance.

"Well," he said, "I must repeat my objections concerning deployment, and I would like the official record to reflect them. This was hardly the controlled test the shakedown cruise presumed. But . . ." he allowed himself a thin smile. "I must admit events _did_ provide – while not a _thorough_ test – an unexpectedly _vigorous_ one. The airframe retained stability even at the outer limits of the envelope and it was able to place ordinance on target in an actual live-fire engagement."

Betancourt sipped his coffee. "She's still yawing starboard, Brufy," he said. The Tek glared at him, but then lapsed into laughter as the pilot winked.

"Any comments to make regarding Quartermain?" Anderson asked casually. Brufen turned to her, his face quizzical. Anderson shrugged. "You might have seen something John or I missed." Brufen shook his head.

"I really don't think I would have done," he said. "She was placed in a very difficult situation, and performed admirably. I have no negative report to make."

"Her execution of the perp," Anderson said. "That troubled you – deeply."

He nodded. "It did," he admitted, "and for that I apologize, Judge Anderson. I, too, was placed in a difficult position, but that is no excuse. Although as a member of Tek Division I am not Street-rated and do not expect to engage and sentence, nevertheless I should have been more prepared for the exiges of adjudication."

"Wait . . ." began Anderson. Brufen continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"Cadet Quartermain's action was . . . quite correct," he said. "My response to it was not judicial, and for that I apologize."

Anderson eyed him carefully – she could psynse no deception from him, only genuine humble embarrassment. "We'll say no more of it, Judge Brufen," she said slowly. He smiled, grateful.

"With your permission, Ma'am," he said, "Betancourt and I need to analyze the data from the flight, as well as giving _Manta_ the once-over before we lift off again."

Anderson nodded. "Granted," she said with a smile. Brufen snapped to smart attention for a second and he and Betancourt turned to go, but she called after them. "And make sure you make time to look at the cars, boys!" she ordered.

"Yes, Ma'am," Brufen assured her. "Thank you, Ma'am." They hurried towards the silver-gray shield of _Manta_ as Cornelius and Quartermain approached, the heavyset Big Tri Judge with them. Anderson acknowledged them with an upward flick of her head.

"Judge Pletcher," she said politely. It was a simple enough gambit, and Anderson noted critically Pletcher looked at her blankly for a second before realizing she'd just read his badge. "Hope we didn't make too much of a mess." Her voice and eyes were cool – the fact a well-organized carjacking like this had occurred in an area at least nominally under J-Dept control was troubling. Of course, most of the law enforcement in the all-but-fully privately owned Big Tri 'dust zone was corporate security with Judges limited to mere oversight. There would be too-few Judges to effectively police the area. It would be tempting to let things slide, to give corporations wide latitude, especially given the pressures that could be brought to bear because of the wealth and power of the vital industries here. She suspected the Chief Judge would be chewing out Pletcher's chief come the morning – and perhaps receiving an education in realpolik herself from Cal after the fact.

A small cloud hung in her mind – why had she thought of the Deputy Chief Judge then? He was a good Judge – an astute political animal, of course, but it seemed unusual to think of him as someone even slightly open to that. Still, it made sense. She wondered why she'd never thought of it before.

"Who are you people?" Pletcher asked without preamble.

"Psi-Division," said Anderson with relish. She spread her hands as if unfurling a banner. "'It's the thought that counts.'" Pletcher didn't look impressed, but it was Cornelius who spoke.

"Big Tri doesn't particularly want to take over the scene," he explained. "Jackie asked nicely . . ."

"Damn smart-mouth Cadet, threatening to go over my head," muttered Pletcher.

". . . but he still said no," finished Cornelius. "I made it an order, but I don't think he understands. I thought maybe you could explain, Cassie. Delicate touch, and all that."

"I want to know what the drokk you were doing adjudicating in Big Tri," Pletcher snapped. "We had notice of an airframe test over Sinclair with clearance for Big Tri airspace, but no details. And then you people drop out of nowhere like the Screaming Eagles taking on Ho-Chi Kim in SoAz and tear up the Dream Cruise? My chief wants answers."

Anderson felt the canopy of Betancourt's jungle ripple, the wind blown by a sudden memory. She watched him carefully, but his face betrayed nothing. She turned back to Pletcher. "Then your chief can ask, Pletcher," she said coldly. "And my XO'll tell him he doesn't have clearance. Now," she continued into his gaping face, "I've got my report to make and as a DivChief it goes straight to the Council of Five. You want me to mention you ignored a direct order from a Deputy DivChief and refused to take charge of a crime scene in your jurisdiction? Seems to me your chief'll have more questions than what the drokk we're doing here if I do."

Pletcher winced, his face twisting with anger, but when he spoke it was in a more conciliatory tone. "Look," he said, "the Dream Cruise is a big deal here – important event. Lots of corporate sponsors, major media coverage, that kind of thing. We just don't want anything happening to jeopardize it – it brings a lot of money into Big Tri."

"It nearly took a lot out," said Quartermain. "About, what, a billion or two in jacked classic cars?" She ignored Pletcher glowering at her. "How did that happen? That's the question your chief should be asking."

"Listen, Cadet . . ." began Pletcher, pointing his finger in her face, but got no further before Cornelius caught his meaty wrist in one massive hand.

"No, you listen to her," he said meaningfully. "You dropped the ball, let corp security have too-much leash. There's gonna be an investigation, questions asked. I think your chief would be in a better position to answer them if you take over the crime scene and we call this your collar."

For a second, Pletcher looked like he might argue, but then he angrily nodded and jerked his arm free. He watched sullenly as Cornelius tapped a couple of controls on his lawscreen. Pletcher banged his forearm against Cornelius' with unnecessary force. Cornelius smiled and gave a laconic salute. "Thank you, Judge Pletcher," he said pleasantly.

Pletcher didn't say anything, but Anderson's eyebrows went scrambling up in surprise as he snarled at them with his expression and stalked away. "I'm guessing I should be glad I'm not a telepath," Quartermain murmured.

Anderson turned to her. "Did you _really_ threaten to go over his head?" she asked. Quartermain looked offended.

"No, Ma'am!" she exclaimed. "I spugging well _did_ it. I had a line into ExUrb – they were going to call Kerry at home." Each sector in Mega City One was part of a larger supersector, named after a cardinal compass direction. Territories outside the city's walls yet still under its jurisdiction were grouped together in an extra-urban 'zone'. Judge Kerry – a savvy diplomat and negotiator – handled the complexities of the disparate and scattered non-continuous territories, keeping multiple balls in the air with consummate skill. Quartermain folded her arms and looked after Pletcher with distaste. "Spugging idiot!" she muttered. "He should know regs – Judicial elements unrated as Asset hold a crime scene _only_ until local Judiciary arrive, at which point unrated elements are _required_ to hand over."

"Oh, he knows it," Cornelius assured her. "He was just hoping you didn't."

She grinned. "Good job I was studying that earlier," she remarked lightly. "I had a feeling it would be useful."

oOo

"How you doing?"

The night was moon-washed and cool, the crow's nest illuminated with silvery-blue light. _Aegis_ was docked on the northern edge of Big Tri, tethered to a slender spike extending from a skyscraper's roof. Attitude-control fans hummed on station-keeping duties and the airship bobbed and swayed in the wind coming off Lake Wendat. Most of the buoyancy was provided by expanded cells, the lift fans spinning almost-lazily.

Quartermain raised her eye from the privateer's scope and looked up at Cornelius. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust – one from the darkness of being closed, the other from the false-dawn of the blacksun filter on the scope. She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "You're spotting my targets, Sir," she said, "you tell me."

Cornelius shook his head. "I didn't mean with the rifle – we're done for tonight." He held his hand out and she – a little reluctantly – passed it to him. He shucked the magazine and cleared the chamber, holding it in his left hand so he could offer his right to help her up. She took it and stood easily, lifting her helmet from her head. The two of them looked at each other for a second – her waiting for him to say what she knew he would, but having the good-manners to not preempt him. "Your first live-fire engagement," he said eventually. He drew into himself in thought. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "You're young – too young. I shouldn't have done that."

Quartermain had twisted her hair into a simple bun on the crown of her head to cushion the weight of the helmet. She reached up and unpinned it, shaking it out. In the moonlight, it was glossy black, the wind making it writhe with red and copper like a live coal. "You want to know how I'm doing, Sir?" she asked, "or you want to tell me?" She didn't give Cornelius a chance to respond. "I'm doing fine – thank you. You put me in the game, you trusted me. So did Cassandra. That . . . that means a lot, Sir."

"You killed a man," said Cornelius. "That's . . ."

"Seven," she said precisely. "I killed seven men, one executed, and wounded three others. I do not believe I acted inappropriately, I consider all my sentences to have been correct and my use of force justifiable and within regs. Obviously, if . . ."

"That's not what I want to talk about," said Cornelius gently. "For the record, I have no problems with anything you did."

"Then neither do I, Sir," she said tightly.

She held his patient gaze for an endless second, watching the little golden motes in his dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight. "I'm here for you, Jackie," he reminded her, "and I've got all evening." She shook her head.

"No, Sir," she said. "Cassandra will be here in few minutes with take-out and beer. You two'll want to be alone, and I'll admit I'm tired."

He laughed. "Then if you want to talk," he said, "you should talk."

She was silent for a moment, and then sighed deeply, running her hand through her hair. "Alright," she said, surrendering. She was suddenly a little girl again, no longer the fearsome Judicial-Cadet with everything to prove on the street. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, Sir. I know how I _do_ feel – but I don't know if that's right."

"How _do_ you feel?" he asked.

"I don't," she said simply. "I killed seven men today. And I'm sure they had hopes and dreams and favorite drinks. I'll bet they followed sports teams and watched TV. They probably had girlfriends or wives, maybe kids. I'm sure they had reasons for doing what they did. And you know what, Sir?" she asked flatly. "I don't give a single spugging damn. I'll put my head down tonight and the only thing that'll keep me awake will be the engines. I didn't choose to be a Judge, Sir, J-Dept chose me. But if that's how it is, that's what I'll be. They were perps, in the very act of committing a felony. Whatever their reasons, they still chose that. They chose to take something that wasn't theirs. They shot at you and Cassandra. If you gave me it to do over again," she said firmly, "I'd do just what I did. So tell me, Sir," she asked, "what does that rate me?"

"Pass with distinction," said Cornelius. "It's what you're supposed to be, how you're supposed to act. We've all been there, where you are. You did the right thing, and you know it's the right thing – but you look at yourself and wonder, what am I that I could do that?"

"I'm a Judicial-Cadet," she told him in a tone that said the conversation was at an end. Slowly, he nodded.

"If you ever want to talk . . ." he said. She smiled.

"I know, Sir – thank you." She turned as the hatch opened behind her and Anderson climbed into the crow's nest. She had a brown paper-bag tucked under one arm, folded square around boxes inside, grease stains seeping through the corners, and a six-pack of beer in the other hand. "Are we off-duty now, Sir?" Quartermain asked. He nodded. She flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek into his chest in a sudden hug. She jumped back before he could object, darting past Anderson to the hatch. "Thank you, Ma'am," she said, "and I don't know why either – it's not something I've heard of. I'm sure it'll be nice, though."

Anderson's mouth gaped for a second. "There's sushi in the fridge for you, and something they call a Boston cooler – the local ginger ale and ice-kreem," she said lamely. "I don't know why they call . . ." But Quartermain was already gone. Anderson looked at Cornelius, smirking at the way he was still standing awkwardly with his arms out to avoid touching the young woman. "I'd have thought she'd have had enough of brothers," she remarked.

"Just so long as that's all it is," said Cornelius darkly. Anderson laughed and held out the bag.

"Noodles?" she asked. "Decent-enough looking joint in the atrium of the tower. No Natty Boh, I'm afraid – but the guy in the liquor store said this was the same family."

Cornelius took the six-pack and pulled out two bottles. He twisted the caps off and handed one to her. "We're a long way from Baltimore," he remarked. They clinked the bottles' necks together. "Cheers."

"To a job well-done," agreed Anderson.

"And many more," said Cornelius.

They both drank and then Anderson looked around for a place to put the bag while Cornelius examined the beer label critically. "We need a table or something up here," she said eventually, giving up and putting the take-out on the deck. She lifted a white-and-red carton out of the bag and offered it to Cornelius with a paper-wrapped pair of chopsticks. "Maybe some chairs, a little heater or something. Make a bit of a patio of it."

"I say no," said Cornelius, digging into the noodles. They were curried, but not excessively so. He fumbled with the chopsticks, eating as delicately as he could. Anderson slurped and shoveled – he wasn't sure if that was the method, or she just had bad table manners.

"Why?" she asked, her mouth full and drips of sauce on her chin.

"Quartermain said you were going to," he explained. "I'd kind of like her to be wrong at least once."

**A/n :** Not many notes here – this is really just a wrap-up chapter. There are some character notes here, mostly with Quartermain but we see little of Brufen and Betancourt as well. Some dark suggestions of things that might happen in the future.

"Lake Wendat" is the name given to Lake Huron; "Huron" is the French pronunciation of Wyandot or Wendat, the native people of the region. There are a lot of things called Huron, Wyandot or Wendat in that part of the world.

A "Boston Cooler" is a Detroit drink – Vernors ginger ale and vanilla ice-cream. It is named not after the city in Massachusetts, but no-one really knows for sure _why_ it is called that.

Anyway – the end of the story; what did you think? There is a review box right below – I see many people reading, including reading through the whole story, but few reviews! What gives? :( Just tell me what you thought – you don't even _need_ to log in!


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